CHESTER  ION 


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./      ^«^    (jti>eyi^'i^c^c 


^^^. .  A  /fy^  - 


The  Man  Who  Was 
Thursday 

A    NIGHTMARE 


By 

G.    K.    CHESTERTON 

Author  of  "  Varied   Types,'" 
'*  Charles  Dickens.     A    Critical  Study,'"  etc. 


NEW   YORK 

DODD,   MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1910 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

DoDD,  Mead  &  Company 

Published,  March,  igo8 


ft  6. 

TO 
CDmunb  Clerifjeto  Pentlep 

A  cloud  was  on  the  mind  of  men,  and  wailing  went  the  weather, 

Yea,  a  sick  cloud  upon  the  soul  when  we  were  boys  together. 

Science  announced  nonentity  and  art  admired  decay  ; 

The  world  was  old  and  ended  :    but  you  and  I  were  gay. 

Round  us  in  antic  order  their  crippled  vices  came — 

Lust  that  had  lost  its  laughter,  fear  that  had  lost  its  shame. 

Like  the  white  lock  of  Whistler,  that  lit  our  aimless  gloom, 

Men  showed  their  own  white  feather  as  proudly  as  a  plume. 

Life  was  a  fly  that  faded,  and  death  a  drone  that  stung  ; 

The  world  was  very  old  indeed  when  you  and  I  were  young. 

They  twisted  even  decent  sin  to  shapes  not  to  be  named  ; 

Men  were  ashamed  of  honour  ;  but  we  were  not  ashamed. 

Weak  if  we  were  and  foolish,  not  thus  we  failed,  not  thus  ; 

When  that  black  Baal  blocked  the  heavens  he  had  no  hymns  from  U3. 

Children  we  were — our  forts  of  sand  were  even  as  weak  as  we, 

High  as  they  went  we  piled  them  up  to  break  that  bitter  sea. 

Fools  as  we  were  in  motley,  all  jangling  and  absurd. 

When  all  church  bells  were  silent  our  cap  and  bells  were  heard. 

Not  all  unhelped  we  held  the  fort,  our  tiny  flags  unfurled  ; 

Some  giants  laboured  in  that  cloud  to  lift  it  from  the  world. 

I  find  again  the  book  we  found,  I  feel  the  hour  that  Hings 

Far  out  of  fish-shaped  Paumanok  some  cry  of  cleaner  things  ; 

And  the  Green  Carnation  withered,  as  in  forest  fires  that  pass. 

Roared  in  the  wind  of  all  the  world  ten  million  leaves  of  grass  } 

Or  sane  and  sweet  and  sudden  as  a  bird  sings  in  the  rain — 

Truth  out  of  Tusitala  spoke  and  pleasure  out  of  pain. 

Yea,  cool  and  clear  and  sudden  as  a  bird  sings  in  the  grey, 

Dunedin  to  Samoa  spoke,  and  darkness  unto  day. 

But  we  were  young  ;   we  lived  to  see  God  break  their  bitter  charms, 

God  and  the  good  Republic  come  riding  back  in  arms  : 

We  have  seen  the  City  of  Mansoul,  even  as  it  rocked,  relieved — 

Blessed  are  they  who  did  not  see,  but  being  blind,  believed. 

This  is  a  tale  of  those  old  fears,  even  of  those  emptied  hells. 
And  none  but  you  shall  understand  the  true  thing  that  it  tells — 
Of  what  colossal  gods  of  shame  could  cow  men  and  yet  crash. 
Of  what  huge  devils  hid  the  stars,  yet  fell  at  a  pistol  Hash. 
The  doubts  that  were  so  plain  to  chase,  so  dreadful  to  withstand — 
Oh,  who  shall  understand  but  you  ;   yea,  who  shall  understand  ? 
The  doubts  that  drove  us  through  the  night  as  we  two  talked  amain, 
And  day  had  broken  on  the  streets  e'er  it  broke  upon  the  brain. 
Between  us,  by  the  peace  of  God,  such  truth  can  now  be  told  ; 
Yea,  there  is  strength  in  striking  root,  and  good  in  growing  old. 
We  have  found  common  things  at  last,  and  marriage  and  a  creed. 
And  I  may  safely  write  it  now,  and  you  may  solely  read 

G.  K.  C. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  The  Two  Poets  of  Saffron  Park 

II  The  Secret  of  Gabriel  Syme    . 

III  The  Man  who  was  Thursday 

IV  The  Tale  of  a  Detective 
V  The  Feast  of  Fear   . 

VI     The  Exposure   .... 

VII     The     Unaccountable     Conduct  of 
Professor  De  Worms     . 

VIII  The  Professor  Explains    . 

IX  The  Man  in  Spectacles    . 

X  The  Duel  .... 

XI  The  Criminals  Chase  the  Police 

XII  The  Earth  in  Anarchy    . 

XIII  The  Pursuit  of  the  President 

XIV  The  Six  Philosophers 
XV  The  Accuser     .... 


I 
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267 


The  Man  who  was  Thursday 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK 

The  suburb  of  Saffron  Park  lay  on  the  sunset  side 
of  London,  as  red  and  ragged  as  a  cloud  of  sunset. 
It  was  built  of  a  bright  brick  throughout ;  its  sky- 
line was  fantastic,  and  even  its  ground  plan  was  wild. 
It  had  been  the  outburst  of  a  speculative  builder, 
faintly  tinged  with  art,  who  called  its  architecture 
sometimes  Elizabethan  and  sometimes  Queen  Anne, 
apparently  under  the  impression  that  the  two 
sovereigns  were  identical.  It  was  described  with 
some  justice  as  an  artistic  colony,  though  it  never  in 
any  definable  way  produced  any  art.  But  although 
its  pretensions  to  be  an  intellectual  centre  were  a 
little  vague,  its  pretensions  to  be  a  pleasant  place 
were  quite  indisputable.  The  stranger  who  looked 
for  the  first  time  at  the  quaint  red  houses  could  only 
think  how  very  oddly  shaped  the  people  must  be 
who  could  fit  in  to  them.  Nor  when  he  met  the 
people  was  he  disappointed  in  this  respect.     The 


2  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

place  was  not  only  pleasant,  but  perfect,  if  once  he 
could  regard  it  not  as  a  deception  but  rather  as  a 
dream.  Even  if  the  people  were  not  "  artists,"  the 
whole  was  nevertheless  artistic.  That  young  man 
with  the  long,  auburn  hair  and  the  impudent  face — 
that  young  man  was  not  really  a  poet ;  but  surely 
he  was  a  poem.  That  old  gentleman  with  the  wild, 
white  beard  and  the  wild,  white  hat — that  venerable 
humbug  was  not  really  a  philosopher ;  but  at  least 
he  was  the  cause  of  philosophy  in  others.  That 
scientific  gentleman  with  the  bald,  egg-Uke  head 
and  the  bare,  bird-like  neck  had  no  real  right  to  the 
airs  of  science  that  he  assumed.  He  had  not  dis- 
covered anything  new  in  biology  ;  but  what  biolog- 
ical creature  could  he  have  discovered  more  singular 
than  himself  ?  Thus,  and  thus  only,  the  whole  place 
had  properly  to  be  regarded ;  it  had  to  be  considered 
not  so  much  as  a  workshop  for  artists,  but  as  a  frail 
but  finished  work  of  art.  A  man  who  stepped  into 
its  social  atmosphere  felt  as  if  he  had  stepped  into  a 
written  comedy. 

More  especially  this  attractive  unreality  fell  upon 
it  about  nightfall,  when  the  extravagant  roofs  were 
dark  against  the  afterglow  and  the  whole  insane 
village  seemed  as  separate  as  a  drifting  cloud.  This 
again  was  more  strongly  true  of  the  many  nights  of 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK        3 

local  festivity,  when  the  little  gardens  were  often  il- 
luminated, and  the  big  Chinese  lanterns  glowed  in 
the  dwarfish  trees  hke  some  fierce  and  monstrous 
fruit.  And  this  was  strongest  of  all  on  one  particu- 
lar evening,  still  vaguely  remembered  in  the  locality, 
of  which  the  auburn-haired  poet  was  the  hero.  It 
was  not  by  any  means  the  only  evening  of  which  he 
was  the  hero.  On  many  nights  those  passing  by 
his  little  back  garden  might  hear  his  high,  didactic 
voice  laying  down  the  law  to  men  and  particularly 
to  women.  The  attitude  of  women  in  such  cases 
was  indeed  one  of  the  paradoxes  of  the  place.  Most 
of  the  women  were  of  the  kind  vaguely  called 
emancipated,  and  professed  some  protest  against 
male  supremacy.  Yet  these  new  women  would  al- 
ways pay  to  a  man  the  extravagant  compliment 
which  no  ordinary  woman  ever  pays  to  him,  that  of 
listening  while  he  is  talking.  And  Mr.  Lucian 
Gregory,  the  red-haired  poet,  was  really  (in  some 
sense)  a  man  worth  listening  to,  even  if  one  only 
laughed  at  the  end  of  it.  He  put  the  old  cant  of  the 
lawlessness  of  art  and  the  art  of  lawlessness  with  a 
certain  impudent  freshness  which  gave  at  least  a 
momentary  pleasure.  He  was  helped  in  some  de- 
gree by  the  arresting  oddity  of  his  appearance, 
which  he  worked,  as  the  phrase  goes,  for  all  it  was 


4  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

worth.  His  dark  red  hair  parted  in  the  middle  was 
literally  like  a  woman's,  and  curved  into  the  slow 
curls  of  a  virgin  in  a  pre-Raphaelite  picture.  From 
within  this  almost  saintly  oval,  however,  his  face 
projected  suddenly  broad  and  brutal,  the  chin  car- 
ried forward  with  a  look  of  cockney  contempt. 
This  combination  at  once  tickled  and  terrified  the 
nerves  of  a  neurotic  population.  He  seemed  like 
a  walking  blasphemy,  a  blend  of  the  angel  and  the 
ape. 

This  particular  evening,  if  it  is  remembered  for 
nothing  else,  will  be  remembered  in  that  place  for 
its  strange  sunset.  It  looked  like  the  end  of  the 
world.  All  the  heaven  seemed  covered  with  a  quite 
vivid  and  palpable  plumage;  you  could  only  say 
that  the  sky  was  full  of  feathers,  and  of  feathers  that 
almost  brushed  the  face.  Across  the  great  part  of 
the  dome  they  were  grey,  with  the  strangest  tints 
of  violet  and  mauve  and  an  unnatural  pink  or  pale 
green ;  but  towards  the  west  the  whole  grew  past 
description,  transparent  and  passionate,  and  the  last 
red-hot  plumes  of  it  covered  up  the  sun  like  some- 
thing too  good  to  be  seen.  The  whole  was  so  close 
about  the  earth,  as  to  express  nothing  but  a  violent 
secrecy.  The  very  empyrean  seemed  to  be  a  secret. 
It  expressed  that  splendid  smallness  which  is  the 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK        5 

soul    of  local    patriotism.     The  very  sky  seemed 

small. 

I  say  that  there  are  some  inhabitants  who  may 
remember  the  evening  if  only  by  that  oppressive 
sky.     There  are  others  who  may  remember  it  be- 
cause it  marked  the  first  appearance  in  the  place  of 
the  second  poet  of  Saffron  Park.     For  a  long  time 
the  red-haired  revolutionary  had  reigned  without  a 
rival;  it  was  upon  the  night  of  the  sunset  that  his 
solitude  suddenly  ended.    The  new  poet,  who  intro- 
duced himself  by  the  name  of  Gabriel  Syme,  was  a 
very  mild-looking  mortal,  with  a  fair,  pointed  beard 
and  faint,  yellow  hair.     But  an  impression  grew  that 
he  was  less  meek  than  he  looked.     He  signalised 
his  entrance  by  differing  with  the  established  poet, 
Gregory,  upon  the  whole  nature  of  poetry.    He  said 
that  he  (Syme)  was  a  poet  of  law,  a  poet  of  order ; 
nay,  he  said  he  was  a  poet  of  respectability.     So  all 
the  Saffron  Parkers  looked  at  him  as  if  he  had  that 
moment  fallen  out  of  that  impossible  sky. 

In  fact,  Mr.  Lucian  Gregory,  the  anarchic  poet, 
connected  the  two  events. 

"  It  may  well  be,"  he  said,  in  his  sudden  lyrical 
manner,  "  it  may  well  be  on  such  a  night  of  clouds 
and  cruel  colours  that  there  is  brought  forth  upon 
the  earth  such  a  portent  as  a  respectable  poet.    You 


6  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

say  you  are  a  poet  of  law ;  I  say  you  are  a  contra- 
diction in  terms.  I  only  wonder  there  were  not 
comets  and  earthquakes  on  the  night  you  appeared 
in  this  garden." 

The  man  with  the  meek  blue  eyes  and  the  pale, 
pointed  beard  endured  these  thunders  with  a  certain 
submissive  solemnity.  The  third  party  of  the  group, 
Gregory's  sister  Rosamond,  who  had  her  brother's 
braids  of  red  hair,  but  a  kindlier  face  underneath 
them,  laughed  with  such  mixture  of  admiration  and 
disapproval  as  she  gave  commonly  to  the  family 
oracle. 

Gregory  resumed  in  high  oratorical  good-humour. 

*'  An  artist  is  identical  with  an  anarchist,"  he 
cried.  "  You  might  transpose  the  words  anywhere. 
An  anarchist  is  an  artist.  The  man  who  throws  a 
bomb  is  an  artist,  because  he  prefers  a  great  moment 
to  everything.  He  sees  how  much  more  valuable  is 
one  burst  of  blazing  light,  one  peal  of  perfect  thun- 
der, than  the  mere  common  bodies  of  a  few  shape- 
less policemen.  An  artist  disregards  all  govern- 
ments, abolishes  all  conventions.  The  poet  delights 
in  disorder  only.  If  it  were  not  so,  the  most  poet- 
ical thing  in  the  world  would  be  the  Underground 
Railway." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Syme. 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK        7 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Gregory,  who  was  very  rational 
when  any  one  else  attempted  paradox.  "  Why  do  all 
the  clerks  and  navvies  in  the  railway  trains  look  so 
sad  and  tired,  so  very  sad  and  tired  ?  I  will  tell 
you.  It  is  because  they  know  that  the  train  is 
going  right.  It  is  because  they  know  that  what- 
ever place  they  have  taken  a  ticket  for  that  place 
they  will  reach.  It  is  because  after  they  have 
passed  Sloane  Square  they  know  that  the  next  sta- 
tion must  be  Victoria,  and  nothing  but  Victoria. 
Oh,  their  wild  rapture  !  oh,  their  eyes  like  stars  and 
their  souls  again  in  Eden,  if  the  next  station  were 
unaccountably  Baker  Street !  " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  unpoetical,"  replied  the  poet 
Syme.  "  If  what  you  say  of  clerks  is  true,  they  can 
only  be  as  prosaic  as  your  poetry.  The  rare,  strange 
thing  is  to  hit  the  mark  ;  the  gross,  obvious  thing  is 
to  miss  it.  We  feel  it  is  epical  when  man  with  one 
wild  arrow  strikes  a  distant  bird.  Is  it  not  also  epical 
when  man  with  one  wild  engine  strikes  a  distant 
station  ?  Chaos  is  dull ;  because  in  chaos  the  train 
might  indeed  go  anywhere,  to  Baker  Street  or  to 
Bagdad.  But  man  is  a  magician,  and  his  whole 
magic  is  in  this,  that  he  does  say  Victoria,  and  lo  ! 
it  is  Victoria.  No,  take  your  books  of  mere  poetry 
and  prose ;  let  me  read  a  time  table,  with  tears  of 


8  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

pride.  Take  your  Byron,  who  commemorates  the 
defeats  of  man  ;  give  me  Bradshaw,  who  commemo- 
rates his  victories.     Give  me  Bradshaw,  I  say !  " 

"  Must  you  go  ?  "  inquired  Gregory  sarcastically. 

"  I  tell  you,"  went  on  Syme  with  passion,  "  that 
every  time  a  train  comes  in  I  feel  that  it  has  broken 
past  batteries  of  besiegers,  and  that  man  has  won  a 
battle  against  chaos.  You  say  contemptuously 
that  when  one  has  left  Sloane  Square  one  must  come 
to  Victoria.  I  say  that  one  might  do  a  thousand 
things  instead,  and  that  whenever  I  really  come 
there  I  have  the  sense  of  hair-breadth  escape.  And 
when  I  hear  the  guard  shout  out  the  word  '  Vic- 
toria,' it  is  not  an  unmeaning  word.  It  is  to  me 
the  cry  of  a  herald  announcing  conquest.  It  is  to 
me  indeed  *  Victoria' ;  it  is  the  victory  of  Adam." 

Gregory  wagged  his  heavy,  red  head  with  a  slow 
and  sad  smile. 

"  And  even  then,"  he  said,  "  we  poets  always  ask 
the  question, '  And  what  is  Victoria  now  that  you 
have  got  there?'  You  think  Victoria  is  Hke  the 
New  Jerusalem.  We  know  that  the  New  Jerusa- 
lem will  only  be  like  Victoria.  Yes,  the  poet  will 
be  discontented  even  in  the  streets  of  heaven. 
The  poet  is  always  in  revolt." 

"There  again,"  said   Syme   irritably,  "what  is 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK       9 

there  poetical  about  being  in  revolt?  You  might 
as  well  say  that  it  is  poetical  to  be  seasick.  Being 
sick  is  a  revolt.  Both  being  sick  and  being  re- 
bellious may  be  the  wholesome  thing  on  certain 
desperate  occasions ;  but  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  see 
why  they  are  poetical.  Revolt  in  the  abstract  is — 
revolting.     It's  mere  vomiting." 

The  girl  winced  for  a  flash  at  the  unpleasant 
word,  but  Syme  was  too  hot  to  heed  her. 

"  It  is  things  going  right,"  he  cried,  "  that  is  po- 
etical !  Our  digestions,  for  instance,  going  sacredly 
and  silently  right,  that  is  the  foundation  of  all 
poetry.  Yes,  the  most  poetical  thing,  more  po- 
etical than  the  flowers,  more  poetical  than  the 
stars — the  most  poetical  thing  in  the  world  is  not 
being  sick." 

"  Really,"  said  Gregory,  superciliously,  "  the 
examples  you  choose " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Syme  grimly,  "  I  for- 
got we  had  abolished  all  conventions." 

For  the  first  time  a  red  patch  appeared  on 
Gregory's  forehead. 

"  You  don't  expect  me,"  he  said,  "  to  revolution- 
ise society  on  this  lawn  ?  " 

Syme  looked  straight  into  his  eyes  and  smiled 
sweetly. 


lo  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  No,  I  don't,"  he  said;  "  but  I  suppose  that  if 
you  were  serious  about  your  anarchism,  that  is 
exactly  what  you  would  do." 

Gregory's  big  bull's  eyes  blinked  suddenly  like 
those  of  an  angry  lion,  and  one  could  almost  fancy 
that  his  red  mane  rose. 

"  Don't  you  think,  then,"  he  said  in  a  dangerous 
voice,  "  that  I  am  serious  about  my  anarchism  ?  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  said  Syme. 

"  Am  I  not  serious  about  my  anarchism  ?  "  cried 
Gregory,  with  knotted  fists. 

"  My  dear  fellow ! "  said  Syme,  and  strolled 
away. 

With  surprise,  but  with  a  curious  pleasure,  he 
found  Rosamond  Gregory  still  in  his  company. 

"  Mr.  Syme,"  she  said,  "  do  the  people  who  talk 
like  you  and  my  brother  often  mean  what  they 
say  ?     Do  you  mean  what  you  say  now  ?  " 

Syme  smiled. 

"  Do  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  the  girl,  with 
grave  eyes. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Gregory,"  said  Syme  gently, 
"  there  are  many  kinds  of  sincerity  and  insincerity. 
When  you  say  *  thank  you '  for  the  salt,  do  you 
mean  what  you  say  ?     No.     When  you  say  *  the 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK      ii 

world  is  round/  do  you  mean  what  you  say  ?  No. 
It  is  true,  but  you  don't  mean  it.  Now,  sometimes 
a  man  like  your  brother  really  finds  a  thing  he  does 
mean.  It  may  be  only  a  half-truth,  quarter-truth, 
tenth-truth ;  but  then  he  says  more  than  he  means 
— from  sheer  force  of  meaning  it." 

She  was  looking  at  him  from  under  level  brows ; 
her  face  was  grave  and  open,  and  there  had  fallen 
upon  it  the  shadow  of  that  unreasoning  responsi- 
bility which  is  at  the  bottom  of  the  most  frivolous 
woman,  the  maternal  watch  which  is  as  old  as  the 
world. 

"  Is  he  really  an  anarchist,  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Only  in  that  sense  I  speak  of,"  replied  Syme ; 
"  or  if  you  prefer  it,  in  that  nonsense." 

She  drew  her  broad  brows  together  and  said 
abruptly  — 

"  He  wouldn't  really  use — bombs  or  that  sort  of 
thing  ?  " 

Syme  broke  into  a  great  laugh,  that  seemed  too 
large  for  his  slight  and  somewhat  dandified  figure. 

"  Good  Lord,  no  !  "  he  said,  "  that  has  to  be  done 
anonymously." 

And  at  that  the  corners  of  her  own  mouth  broke 
into  a  smile,  and  she  thought  with  a  simultaneous 
pleasure  of  Gregory's  absurdity  and  of  his  safety. 


12         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Syme  strolled  with  her  to  a  seat  in  the  corner  of 
the  garden,  and  continued  to  pour  out  his  opinions. 
For  he  was  a  sincere  man,  and  in  spite  of  his  super- 
ficial airs  and  graces,  at  root  a  humble  one.  And  it 
is  always  the  humble  man  who  talks  too  much ;  the 
proud  man  watches  himself  too  closely.  He  de- 
fended respectability  with  violence  and  exaggera- 
tion. He  grew  passionate  in  his  praise  of  tidiness 
and  propriety.  All  the  time  there  was  a  smell  of 
lilac  all  round  him.  Once  he  heard  very  faintly  in 
some  distant  street  a  barrel-organ  begin  to  play, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  his  heroic  words  were 
moving  to  a  tiny  tune  from  under  or  beyond  the 
world. 

He  stared  and  talked  at  the  girl's  red  hair  and 
amused  face  for  what  seemed  to  be  a  few  minutes ; 
and  then,  feeling  that  the  groups  in  such  a  place 
should  mix,  rose  to  his  feet.  To  his  astonishment, 
he  discovered  the  whole  garden  empty.  Every  one 
had  gone  long  ago,  and  he  went  himself  with  a 
rather  hurried  apology.  He  left  with  a  sense  of 
champagne  in  his  head,  which  he  could  not  after- 
wards explain.  In  the  wild  events  which  were  to 
follow  this  girl  had  no  part  at  all ;  he  never  saw  her 
again  until  all  his  tale  was  over.  And  yet,  in  some 
indescribable  way,  she  kept  recurring  like  a  motive 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK      13 

in  music  through  all  his  mad  adventures  afterwards, 
and  the  glory  of  her  strange  hair  ran  like  a  red 
thread  through  those  dark  and  ill-drawn  tapestries 
of  the  night.  For  what  followed  was  so  improb- 
able, that  it  might  well  have  been  a  dream. 

When  Syme  went  out  into  the  starht  street,  he 
found  it  for  the  moment  empty.  Then  he  realised 
(in  some  odd  way)  that  the  silence  was  rather  a 
living  silence  than  a  dead  one.  Directly  outside 
the  door  stood  a  street  lamp,  whose  gleam  gilded 
the  leaves  of  the  tree  that  bent  out  over  the  fence 
behind  him.  About  a  foot  from  the  lamp-post 
stood  a  figure  almost  as  rigid  and  motionless  as  the 
lamp-post  itself.  The  tall  hat  and  long  frock-coat 
were  black;  the  face,  in  an  abrupt  shadow,  was 
almost  as  dark.  Only  a  fringe  of  fiery  hair  against 
the  light,  and  also  something  aggressive  in  the 
attitude,  proclaimed  that  it  was  the  poet  Gregory. 
He  had  something  of  the  look  of  a  masked  bravo 
waiting  sword  in  hand  for  his  foe. 

He  made  a  sort  of  doubtful  salute,  which  Syme 
somewhat  more  formally  returned. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  said  Gregory.  "  Might 
I  have  a  moment's  conversation  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  About  what  ?  "  asked  Syme  in  a  sort 
of  weak  wonder. 


14         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Gregory  struck  out  with  his  stick  at  the  lamp- 
post, and  then  at  the  tree. 

«' About  this  and  this"  he  cried ;  " about  order 
and  anarchy.  There  is  your  precious  order,  that 
lean,  iron  lamp,  ugly  and  barren;  and  there  is 
anarchy,  rich,  living,  reproducing  itself — there  is 
anarchy,  splendid  in  green  and  gold." 

'*  All  the  same,"  repHed  Syme  patiently,  "just  at 
present  you  only  see  the  tree  by  the  light  of  the 
lamp.  I  wonder  when  you  would  ever  see  the 
lamp  by  the  light  of  the  tree."  Then  after  a  pause 
he  said,  "  But  may  I  ask  if  you  have  been  stand- 
ing out  here  in  the  dark  only  to  resume  our  little 
argument  ?  " 

"  No,"  cried  out  Gregory,  in  a  voice  that  rang 
down  the  street,  "  I  did  not  stand  here  to  resume 
our  argument,  but  to  end  it  forever." 

The  silence  fell  again,  and  Syme,  though  he 
understood  nothing,  listened  instinctively  for  some- 
thing serious.  Gregory  began  in  a  smooth  voice 
and  with  a  rather  bewildering  smile. 

"  Mr.  Syme,"  he  said,  "  this  evening  you  suc- 
ceeded in  doing  something  rather  remarkable.  You 
did  something  to  me  that  no  man  born  of  woman 
has  ever  succeeded  in  doing  before." 

"Indeed!" 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK      15 

"  Now  I  remember,"  resumed  Gregory  reflec- 
tively, "  one  other  person  succeeded  in  doing  it. 
The  captain  of  a  penny  steamer  (if  I  remember  cor- 
rectly) at  Southend.     You  have  irritated  me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  replied  Syme  with  gravity. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  fury  and  your  insult  are  too 
shocking  to  be  wiped  out  even  with  an  apology," 
said  Gregory  very  calmly.  "  No  duel  could  wipe 
it  out.  If  I  struck  you  dead  I  could  not  wipe  it 
out.  There  is  only  one  way  by  which  that  insult 
can  be  erased,  and  that  way  I  choose.  I  am  going, 
at  the  possible  sacrifice  of  my  life  and  honour,  to 
prove  to  you  that  you  were  wrong  in  what  you  said." 

"  In  what  I  said  ?  " 

"  You  said  I  was  not  serious  about  being  an 
anarchist." 

"  There  are  degrees  of  seriousness,"  replied  Syme. 
"I  have  never  doubted  that  you  were  perfectly 
sincere  in  this  sense,  that  you  thought  what  you 
said  well  worth  saying,  that  you  thought  a  paradox 
might  wake  men  up  to  a  neglected  truth." 
Gregory  stared  at  him  steadily  and  painfully. 
"  And  in  no  other  sense,"  he  asked,  "you  think 
me  serious  ?  You  think  me  a  flaneur  who  lets  fall 
occasional  truths.  You  do  not  think  that  in  a 
deeper,  a  more  deadly  sense,  I  am  serious." 


l6         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Syme  struck  his  stick  violently  on  the  stones  of 
the  road. 

"  Serious  !  "  he  cried.  "  Good  Lord  !  is  this 
street  serious  ?  Are  these  damned  Chinese  lanterns 
serious  ?  Is  the  whole  caboodle  serious  ?  One 
comes  here  and  talks  a  pack  of  bosh,  and  perhaps 
some  sense  as  well,  but  I  should  think  very  little 
of  a  man  who  didn't  keep  something  in  the  back- 
ground of  his  life  that  was  more  serious  than  all 
this  talking — something  more  serious,  whether  it 
was  religion  or  only  drink." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Gregory,  his  face  darkening, 
*'  you  shall  see  something  more  serious  than  either 
drink  or  religion," 

Syme  stood  waiting  with  his  usual  air  of  mildness 
until  Gregory  again  opened  his  lips. 

"  You  spoke  just  now  of  having  a  religion.  Is  it 
really  true  that  you  have  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Syme  with  a  beaming  smile,  "  we  are 
all  Catholics  now." 

"  Then  may  I  ask  you  to  swear  by  whatever  gods 
or  saints  your  religion  involves  that  you  will  not 
reveal  what  I  am  now  going  to  tell  you  to  any  son 
of  Adam,  and  especially  not  to  the  police?  Will 
you  swear  that !  If  you  will  take  upon  yourself 
this  awful  abnegation,  if  you  will  consent  to  burden 


THE  TWO  POETS  OF  SAFFRON  PARK      17 

your  soul  with  a  vow  that  you  should  never  make 
and  a  knowledge  you  should  never  dream  about,  I 
will  promise  you  in  return " 

**  You  will  promise  me  in  return  ? "  inquired 
Syme,  as  the  other  paused. 

"  I  will  promise  you  a  very  entertaining  evening." 

Syme  suddenly  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Your  offer,"  he  said, "  is  far  too  idiotic  to  be  de- 
clined. You  say  that  a  poet  is  always  an  anarchist. 
I  disagree ;  but  I  hope  at  least  that  he  is  always  a 
sportsman.  Permit  me,  here  and  now,  to  swear  as 
a  Christian,  and  promise  as  a  good  comrade  and  a 
fellow-artist,  that  I  will  not  report  anything  of  this, 
whatever  it  is,  to  the  poHce.  And  now,  in  the  name 
of  Colney  Hatch,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Gregory,  with  placid  irrelevancy, 
"  that  we  will  call  a  cab." 

He  gave  two  long  whistles,  and  a  hansom  came 
ratthng  down  the  road.  The  two  got  into  it  in 
silence.  Gregory  gave  through  the  trap  the  ad- 
dress of  an  obscure  public-house  on  the  Chiswick 
bank  of  the  river.  The  cab  whisked  itself  away 
again,  and  in  it  these  two  fantastics  quitted  their 
fantastic  town. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SECRET    OF    GABRIEL   SYME 

The  cab  pulled  up  before  a  particularly  dreary 
and  greasy  beershop,  into  which  Gregory  rapidly 
conducted  his  companion.  They  seated  themselves 
in  a  close  and  dim  sort  of  bar-parlour,  at  a  stained 
wooden  table  with  one  wooden  leg.  The  room  was 
so  small  and  dark,  that  very  little  could  be  seen 
of  the  attendant  who  was  summoned,  beyond  a 
vague  and  dark  impression  of  something  bulky 
and  bearded. 

"  Will  you  take  a  little  supper  ?  "  asked  Gregory 
politely.  "  The  pate  de  foie  gras  is  not  good  here, 
but  I  can  recommend  the  game." 

Syme  received  the  remark  with  stohdity,  imagin- 
ing it  to  be  a  joke.  Accepting  the  vein  of  humour, 
he  said,  with  a  well-bred  indifference  — 

*'  Oh,  bring  me  some  lobster  mayonnaise." 

To  his  indescribable  astonishment,  the  man  only 
said,  "  Certainly,  sir !  "  and  went  away  apparently 
to  get  it. 

"  What  will  you  drink  ?  "  resumed  Gregory,  with 
the  same  careless  yet  apologetic  air,     "  I  shall  only 

i8 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  19 

have  a  crane  de  menthe  myself;  I  have  dined. 
But  the  champagne  can  really  be  trusted.  Do  let 
me  start  you  with  a  half-bottle  of  Pommery  at 
least  ?  " 

"  Thank  you  ! "  said  the  motionless  Syme.  "  You 
are  very  good." 

His  further  attempts  at  conversation,  somewhat 
disorganised  in  themselves,  were  cut  short  finally  as 
by  a  thunderbolt  by  the  actual  appearance  of  the 
lobster.  Syme  tasted  it,  and  found  it  particularly 
good.  Then  he  suddenly  began  to  eat  with  great 
rapidity  and  appetite. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  enjoy  myself  rather  obviously ! " 
he  said  to  Gregory,  smiling.  "  I  don't  often  have 
the  luck  to  have  a  dream  like  this.  It  is  new  to 
me  for  a  nightmare  to  lead  to  a  lobster.  It  is  com- 
monly the  other  way." 

"  You  are  not  asleep,  I  assure  you,"  said  Gregory. 
"  You  are,  on  the  contrary,  close  to  the  most  actual 
and  rousing  moment  of  your  existence.  Ah,  here 
comes  your  champagne  !  I  admit  that  there  may 
be  a  slight  disproportion,  let  us  say,  between  the 
inner  arrangements  of  this  excellent  hotel  and  its 
simple  and  unpretentious  exterior.  But  that  is  all 
our  modesty.  We  are  the  most  modest  men  that 
ever  lived  on  earth." 


20         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  And  who  are  we  ?  "  asked  Syme,  emptying  his 
champagne  glass. 

"  It  is  quite  simple,"  replied  Gregory.  *'  We  are 
the  serious  anarchists,  in  whom  you  do  not  be- 
lieve." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Syme  shortly.  "  You  do  yourselves 
well  in  drinks." 

"  Yes,  we  are  serious  about  everything,"  answered 
Gregory. 

Then  after  a  pause  he  added  — 

"  If  in  a  few  moments  this  table  begins  to  turn 
round  a  little,  don't  put  it  down  to  your  inroads  into 
the  champagne.  I  don't  wish  you  to  do  yourself  an 
injustice," 

"  Well,  if  I  am  not  drunk,  I  am  mad,"  replied 
Syme  with  perfect  calm ;  "  but  I  trust  I  can  behave 
like  a  gentleman  in  either  condition.  May  I 
smoke  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ! "  said  Gregory,  producing  a  cigar- 
case.     "  Try  one  of  mine." 

Syme  took  the  cigar,  clipped  the  end  off  with  a 
cigar-cutter  out  of  his  waistcoat  pocket,  put  it  in  his 
mouth,  lit  it  slowly,  and  let  out  a  long  cloud  of 
smoke.  It  is  not  a  little  to  his  credit  that  he  per- 
formed these  rites  with  so  much  composure,  for  al- 
most before  he  had  begun  them  the  table  at  which 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  21 

he  sat  had  begun  to  revolve,  first  slowly,  and  then 
rapidly,  as  if  at  an  insane  seance. 

"You  must  not  mind  it,"  said  Gregory;  "it's  a 
kind  of  screw." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Syme  placidly,  "  a  kind  of  screw ! 
How  simple  that  is  !  " 

The  next  moment  the  smoke  of  his  cigar,  which 
had  been  wavering  across  the  room  in  snaky  twists, 
went  straight  up  as  if  from  a  factory  chimney,  and 
the  two,  with  their  chairs  and  table,  shot  down 
through  the  floor  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed 
them.  They  went  rattling  down  a  kind  of  roaring 
chimney  as  rapidly  as  a  lift  cut  loose,  and  they  came 
with  an  abrupt  bump  to  the  bottom.  But  when 
Gregory  threw  open  a  pair  of  doors  and  let  in  a  red 
subterranean  Hght,  Syme  was  still  smoking,  with 
one  leg  thrown  over  the  other,  and  had  not  turned 
a  yellow  hair. 

Gregory  led  him  down  a  low,  vaulted  passage,  at 
the  end  of  which  was  the  red  light.  It  was  an 
enormous  crimson  lantern,  nearly  as  big  as  a  fire- 
place, fixed  over  a  small  but  heavy  iron  door.  In 
the  door  there  was  a  sort  of  hatchway  or  grating, 
and  on  this  Gregory  struck  five  times.  A  heavy 
voice  with  a  foreign  accent  asked  him  who  he  was. 
To  this  he  gave  the  more  or  less  unexpected  reply, 


22         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  Mr.  Joseph  Chamberlain."  The  heavy  hinges 
began  to  move;  it  was  obviously  some  kind  of 
password. 

Inside  the  doorway  the  passage  gleamed  as  if  it 
were  lined  with  a  network  of  steel.  On  a  second 
glance,  Syme  saw  that  the  glittering  pattern  was 
really  made  up  of  ranks  and  ranks  of  rifles  and  re- 
volvers, closely  packed  or  interlocked. 

"  I  must  ask  you  to  forgive  me  all  these  formali- 
ties," said  Gregory ; "  we  have  to  be  very  strict  here." 

"  Oh,  don't  apologise,"  said  Syme.  "  I  know 
your  passion  for  law  and  order,"  and  he  stepped 
into  the  passage  lined  with  the  steel  weapons. 
With  his  long,  fair  hair  and  rather  foppish  frock- 
coat,  he  looked  a  singularly  frail  and  fanciful  figure 
as  he  walked  down  that  shining  avenue  of  death. 

They  passed  through  several  such  passages,  and 
came  out  at  last  into  a  queer  steel  chamber  with 
curved  walls,  almost  spherical  in  shape,  but  present- 
ing, with  its  tiers  of  benches,  something  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  scientific  lecture-theatre.  There  were 
no  rifles  or  pistols  in  this  apartment,  but  round  the 
walls  of  it  were  hung  more  dubious  and  dreadful 
shapes,  things  that  looked  like  the  bulbs  of  iron 
plants,  or  the  eggs  of  iron  birds.  They  were  bombs, 
and  the  very  room  itself  seemed  like  the  inside  of  a 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  23 

bomb.  Syme  knocked  his  cigar  ash  off  against  the 
wall,  and  went  in. 

•'  And  now,  my  dear  Mr.  Syme,"  said  Gregory, 
throwing  himself  in  an  expansive  manner  on  the 
bench  under  the  largest  bomb,  "  now  we  are  quite 
cosy,  so  let  us  talk  properly.  Now,  no  human 
words  can  give  you  any  notion  of  why  I  brought 
you  here.  It  was  one  of  those  quite  arbitrary  emo- 
tions, like  jumping  off  a  cliff  or  faUing  in  love.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say  that  you  were  an  inexpressibly  irrita- 
ting fellow,  and,  to  do  you  justice,  you  are  still.  I 
would  break  twenty  oaths  of  secrecy  for  the  pleas- 
ure of  taking  you  down  a  peg.  That  way  you  have 
of  lighting  a  cigar  would  make  a  priest  break  the 
seal  of  confession.  Well,  you  said  that  you  were 
quite  certain  I  was  not  a  serious  anarchist.  Does 
this  place  strike  you  as  being  serious  ?  " 

"  It  does  seem  to  have  a  moral  under  all  its 
gaiety,"  assented  Syme ;  "  but  may  I  ask  you  two 
questions  ?  You  need  not  fear  to  give  me  informa- 
tion, because,  as  you  remember,  you  very  wisely 
extorted  from  me  a  promise  not  to  tell  the  police,  a 
promise  I  shall  certainly  keep.  So  it  is  in  mere 
curiosity  that  I  make  my  queries.  First  of  all,  what 
is  it  really  all  about  ?  What  is  it  you  object  to  ? 
You  want  to  abolish  Government  ?  " 


Z4         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  To  abolish  God ! "  said  Gregory,  opening  the 
eyes  of  a  fanatic.  "  We  do  not  only  want  to  upset 
a  few  despotisms  and  police  regulations ;  that  sort 
of  anarchism  does  exist,  but  it  is  a  mere  branch  of 
the  Nonconformists.  We  dig  deeper  and  we  blow 
you  higher.  We  wish  to  deny  all  those  arbitrary 
distinctions  of  vice  and  virtue,  honour  and  treachery, 
upon  which  mere  rebels  base  themselves.  The  silly 
sentimentalists  of  the  French  Revolution  talked  of 
the  Rights  of  Man !  We  hate  Rights  as  we  hate 
Wrongs.     We  have  abolished  Right  and  Wrong." 

"  And  Right  and  Left,"  said  Syme  with  a  simple 
fagerness,  "  I  hope  you  will  abolish  them  too. 
They  are  much  more  troublesome  to  me." 

"  You  spoke  of  a  second  question,"  snapped 
Gregory, 

"  With  pleasure,"  resumed  Syme.  "  In  all  your 
present  acts  and  surroundings  there  is  a  scientific 
attempt  at  secrecy.  I  have  an  aunt  who  lived  over 
a  shop,  but  thisi  is  the  first  time  I  have  found  people 
living  from  preference  under  a  public-house.  You 
have  a  heavy  iron  door.  You  cannot  pass  it  with- 
out submitting  to  the  humiliation  of  caUing  yourself 
Mr.  Chamberlain.  You  surround  yourself  with  steel 
instruments  which  make  the  place,  if  I  may  say  so, 
more  impressive  than  homelike.     May  I  ask  why» 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  25 

after  taking  all  this  trouble  to  barricade  yourselves 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  you  then  parade  your 
whole  secret  by  talking  about  anarchism  to  every 
silly  woman  in  Saffron  Park  ?  " 

Gregory  smiled. 

"  The  answer  is  simple,"  he  said.  "  I  told  you  I 
was  a  serious  anarchist,  and  you  did  not  believe  me. 
Nor  do  they  believe  me.  Unless  I  took  them  into 
this  infernal  room  they  would  not  believe  me." 

Syme  smoked  thoughtfully,  and  looked  at  him 
with  interest.     Gregory  went  on. 

"  The  history  of  the  thing  might  amuse  you,"  he 
said.  "  When  first  I  became  one  of  the  New  Anarch- 
ists I  tried  all  kinds  of  respectable  disguises.  I 
dressed  up  as  a  bishop.  I  read  up  all  about 
bishops  in  our  anarchist  pamphlets,  in  Superstition 
the  Vampire  and  Priests  of  Prey.  I  certainly  under- 
stood from  them  that  bishops  are  strange  and  terri- 
ble old  men  keeping  a  cruel  secret  from  mankind. 
I  was  misinformed.  When  on  my  first  appearing 
in  episcopal  gaiters  in  a  drawing-room  I  cried  out 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  *  Down  !  down  !  presumptions 
human  reason  ! '  they  found  out  in  some  way  that 
I  was  not  a  bishop  at  all.  I  was  nabbed  at  once. 
Then  I  made  up  as  a  millionaire ;  but  I  defended 
Capital  with  so  much  intelligence  that  a  fool  could 


26         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

see  that  I  was  quite  poor.  Then  I  tried  being  a 
major.  Now  I  am  a  humanitarian  myself,  but  I 
have,  I  hope,  enough  intellectual  breadth  to  under- 
stand the  position  of  those  who,  like  Nietzsche,  ad- 
mire violence — the  proud,  mad  war  of  Nature  and 
all  that,  you  know.  I  threw  myself  into  the  major. 
I  drew  my  sword  and  waved  it  constantly.  I  called 
out  '  Blood ! '  abstractedly,  Hke  a  man  calling  for 
wine.  I  often  said,  *  Let  the  weak  perish ;  it  is  the 
Law.'  Well,  well,  it  seems  majors  don't  do  this.  I 
was  nabbed  again.  At  last  I  went  in  despair  to  the 
President  of  the  Central  Anarchist  Council,  who  is 
the  greatest  man  in  Europe." 

"  What  is  his  name  ?  "  asked  Syme. 

"  You  would  not  know  it,"  answered  Gregory. 
".That  is  his  greatness.  Caesar  and  Napoleon  put 
all  their  genius  into  being  heard  of,  and  they  were 
heard  of.  He  puts  all  his  genius  into  not  being 
heard  of,  and  he  is  not  heard  of.  But  you  cannot 
be  for  five  minutes  in  the  room  with  him  without 
feeling  that  Caesar  and  Napoleon  would  have  been 
children  in  his  hands." 

He  was  silent  and  even  pale  for  a  moment,  and 
then  resumed  — 

"  But  whenever  he  gives  advice  it  is  always  some- 
thing as  startling  as  an  epigram,  and  yet  as  practical 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  27 

as  the  Bank  of  England.  I  said  to  him,  •  What  dis- 
guise will  hide  me  from  the  world  ?  What  can  I 
find  more  respectable  than  bishops  and  majors  ? ' 
He  looked  at  me  with  his  large  but  indecipherable 
face.  '  You  want  a  safe  disguise,  do  you  ?  You 
want  a  dress  which  will  guarantee  you  harmless ;  a 
dress  in  which  no  one  would  ever  look  for  a  bomb  ? ' 
I  nodded.  He  suddenly  lifted  his  lion's  voice. 
'  Why,  then,  dress  up  as  an  anarchist,  you  fool ! '  he 
roared  so  that  the  room  shook.  '  Nobody  will  ever 
expect  you  to  do  anything  dangerous  then.'  And 
he  turned  his  broad  back  on  me  without  another 
word.  I  took  his  advice,  and  have  never  regretted 
it.  I  preached  blood  and  murder  to  those  women 
day  and  night,  and — by  God! — they  would  let  me 
wheel  their  perambulators." 

Syme  sat  watching  him  with  some  respect  in  his 
large,  blue  eyes. 

"  You  took  mc  in,"  he  said.  "  It  is  really  a  smart 
dodge." 

Then  after  a  pause  he  added  — 

"  What  do  you  call  this  tremendous  President  of 
yours  ?  " 

"  We  generally  call  him  Sunday,"  replied  Gregory 
with  simplicity.  "  You  sec,  there  are  seven  members 
of  the  Central  Anarchist  Council,  and  they  are  named 


28         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

after  days  of  the  week.  He  is  called  Sunday,  by 
some  of  his  admirers  Bloody  Sunday.  It  is  curious 
you  should  mention  the  matter,  because  the  very 
night  you  have  dropped  in  (if  I  may  so  express  it) 
is  the  night  on  which  our  London  branch,  which 
assembles  in  this  room,  has  to  elect  its  own  deputy 
to  fill  a  vacancy  in  the  Council.  The  gentleman 
who  has  for  some  time  past  played,  with  propriety 
and  general  applause,  the  difficult  part  of  Thursday, 
has  died  quite  suddenly.  Consequently,  we  have 
called  a  meeting  this  very  evening  to  elect  a  suc- 
cessor." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  strolled  across  the  room 
with  a  sort  of  smihng  embarrassment. 

"  I  feel  somehow  as  if  you  were  my  mother, 
Syme,"  he  continued  casually.  •'  I  feel  that  I  can 
confide  anything  to  you,  as  you  have  promised  to 
tell  nobody.  In  fact,  I  will  confide  to  you  some- 
thing that  I  would  not  say  in  so  many  words  to  the 
anarchists  who  will  be  coming  to  the  room  in  about 
ten  minutes.  We  shall,  of  course,  go  through  a 
form  of  election ;  but  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that 
it  is  practically  certain  what  the  result  will  be." 
He  looked  down  for  a  moment  modestly.  "  It  is 
almost  a  settled  thing  that  I  am  to  be  Thurs- 
day." 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  29 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Syme  heartily,  **  I  con- 
gratulate you.     A  great  career  !  " 

Gregory  smiled  in  deprecation,  and  walked  across 
the  room,  talking  rapidly. 

"  As  a  matter  of  fact,  everything  is  ready  for  me 
on  this  table,"  he  said,  "  and  the  ceremony  will 
probably  be  the  shortest  possible." 

Syme  also  strolled  across  to  the  table,  and  found 
lying  across  it  a  walking-stick,  which  turned  out  on 
examination  to  be  a  sword-stick,  a  large  Colt's 
revolver,  a  sandwich  case,  and  a  formidable  flask  of 
brandy.  Over  the  chair,  beside  the  table,  was 
thrown  a  heavy-looking  cape  or  cloak. 

*'  I  have  only  to  get  the  form  of  election  finished," 
continued  Gregory  with  animation,  "  then  I  snatch 
up  this  cloak  and  stick,  stuff  these  other  things  into 
my  pocket,  step  out  of  a  door  in  this  cavern,  which 
opens  on  the  river,  where  there  is  a  steam-tug 
already  waiting  for  me,  and  then — then — oh,  the 
wild  joy  of  being  Thursday  ! "  And  he  clasped  his 
hands. 

Syme,  who  had  sat  down  once  more  with  his  usual 
insolent  languor,  got  to  his  feet  with  an  unusual  air 
of  hesitation. 

"  Why  is  if,"  he  asked  vaguely,  "  that  I  think  you 
are  quite  a  decent  fellow  ?     Why  do  I  positively  like 


30         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

you,  Gregory  ?  "  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then 
added  with  a  sort  of  fresh  curiosity,  "  Is  it  because 
you  are  such  an  ass  ?  " 

There  was  a  thoughtful  silence  again,  and  then  he 
cried  out  — 

"  Well,  damn  it  all !  this  is  the  funniest  situation 
I  have  ever  been  in  in  my  life,  and  I  am  going  to 
act  accordingly.  Gregory,  I  gave  you  a  promise 
before  I  came  into  this  place.  That  promise  I  would 
keep  under  red-hot  pincers.  Would  you  give  me, 
for  my  own  safety,  a  little  promise  of  the  same 
kind?" 

"  A  promise  ?  "  asked  Gregory,  wondering. 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme  very  seriously,  "  a  promise. 
I  swore  before  God  that  I  would  not  tell  your  secret 
to  the  police.  Will  you  swear  by  Humanity,  or 
whatever  beastly  thing  you  believe  in,  that  you  will 
not  tell  my  secret  to  the  anarchists  ?  " 

"  Your  secret  ? "  asked  the  staring  Gregory. 
"  Have  you  got  a  secret  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme,  "  I  have  a  secret."  Then 
after  a  pause,  "  Will  you  swear  ?  " 

Gregory  glared  at  him  gravely  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  said  abruptly  — 

"  You  must  have  bewitched  me,  but  I  feel  a 
furious  curiosity  about  you.     Yes,  I  will  swear  not 


THE  SECRET  OF  GABRIEL  SYME  31 

to  tell  the  anarchists  anything  you  tell  me.  But 
look  sharp,  for  they  will  be  here  in  a  couple  of 
minutes." 

Syme  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  thrust  his  long, 
white  hands  into  his  long,  grey  trousers'  pockets. 
Almost  as  he  did  so  there  came  five  knocks  on  the 
outer  grating,  proclaiming  the  arrival  of  the  first  of 
the  conspirators. 

"  Well,"  said  Syme  slowly,  "  I  don't  know  how  to 
tell  you  the  truth  more  shortly  than  by  saying  that 
your  expedient  of  dressing  up  as  an  aimless  poet  is 
not  confined  to  you  or  your  President.  We  have 
known  the  dodge  for  some  time  at  Scotland 
Yard." 

Gregory  tried  to  spring  up  straight,  but  he  swayed 
thrice. 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  "  he  asked  in  an  inhuman 
voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme  simply,  "  I  am  a  police  detec- 
tive.    But  I  think  I  hear  your  friends  coming." 

From  the  doorway  there  came  a  murmur  of  "  Mr. 
Joseph  Chamberlain."  It  was  repeated  twice  and 
thrice,  and  then  thirty  times,  and  the  crowd  of 
Joseph  Chamberlains  (a  solemn  thought)  could  be 
heard  trampling  down  the  corridor. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE   MAN   WHO   WAS   THURSDAY 

Before  one  of  the  fresh  faces  could  appear  at 
the  doorway,  Gregory's  stunned  surprise  had  fallen 
from  him.  He  was  beside  the  table  with  a  bound, 
and  a  noise  in  his  throat  like  a  wild  beast.  He 
caught  up  the  Colt's  revolver  and  took  aim  at 
Syme.  Syme  did  not  flinch,  but  he  put  up  a  pale 
and  polite  hand, 

"  Don't  be  such  a  silly  man,"  he  said,  with  the 
effeminate  dignity  of  a  curate,  "  Don't  you  see  it's 
not  necessary  ?  Don't  you  see  that  we're  both  in 
the  same  boat  ?     Yes,  and  jolly  seasick." 

Gregory  could  not  speak,  but  he  could  not  fire 
either,  and  he  looked  his  question. 

"  Don't  you  see  we've  checkmated  each  other  ?  " 
cried  Syme,  "  I  can't  tell  the  police  you  are  an 
anarchist.  You  can't  tell  the  anarchists  I'm  a 
policeman.  I  can  only  watch  you,  knowing  what 
you  are ;  you  can  only  watch  me,  knowing  what  I 
am.  In  short,  it's  a  lonely,  intellectual  duel,  my 
head  against  yours.     I'm  a  policeman  deprived  of 

32 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY         33 

the  help  of  the  police.  You,  my  poor  fellow,  are 
an  anarchist  deprived  of  the  help  of  that  law  and 
organisation  which  is  so  essential  to  anarchy.  The 
one  solitary  difference  is  in  your  favour.  You  are 
not  surrounded  by  inquisitive  policemen ;  I  am 
surrounded  by  inquisitive  anarchists.  I  cannot 
betray  you,  but  I  might  betray  myself.  Come, 
come !  wait  and  see  me  betray  myself.  I  shall  do 
it  so  nicely." 

Gregory  put  the  pistol  slowly  down,  still  staring 
at  Syme  as  if  he  were  a  sea-monster. 

"  I  don't  believe  in  immortality,"  he  said  at  last, 
"  but  if,  after  all  this,  you  were  to  break  your  word, 
God  would  make  a  hell  only  for  you,  to  howl  in 
forever." 

"  I  shall  not  break  my  word,"  said  Syme  sternly, 
•'  nor  will  you  break  yours.     Here  are  your  friends." 

The  mass  of  the  anarchists  entered  the  room 
heavily,  with  a  slouching  and  somewhat  weary  gait ; 
but  one  Httle  man,  with  a  black  beard  and  glasses — 
a  man  somewhat  of  the  type  of  Mr.  Tim  Healy — 
detached  himself,  and  bustled  forward  with  some 
papers  in  his  hand. 

"  Comrade  Gregory,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose  this 
man  is  a  delegate  ?  " 

Gregory,   taken    by  surprise,  looked   down    and 


34         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

muttered  the  name  of  Syme;  but  Syme  replied 
almost  pertly — 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  that  your  gate  is  well  enough 
guarded  to  make  it  hard  for  any  one  to  be  here  who 
was  not  a  delegate." 

The  brow  of  the  little  man  with  the  black  beard 
was,  however,  still  contracted  with  something  like 
suspicion. 

"  What  branch  do  you  represent  ? "  he  asked 
sharply. 

"  I  should  hardly  call  it  a  branch,"  said  Syme, 
laughing ;  "  I  should  call  it  at  the  very  least  a  root." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Syme  serenely,  "  the  truth  is 
I  am  a  Sabbatarian.  I  have  been  specially  sent 
here  to  see  that  you  show  a  due  observance  of 
Sunday." 

The  little  man  dropped  one  of  his  papers,  and  a 
flicker  of  fear  went  over  all  the  faces  of  the  group. 
Evidently  the  awful  President,  whose  name  was 
Sunday,  did  sometimes  send  down  such  irregular 
ambassadors  to  such  branch  meetings. 

"  Well,  comrade,"  said  the  man  with  the  papers 
after  a  pause,  "  I  suppose  we'd  better  give  you  a 
seat  in  the  meeting  ?  " 

"  If   you    ask    my    advice    as    a    friend,"   said 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY  35 

Syme   with    severe   benevolence,  "  I   think   you'd 
better." 

When  Gregory  heard  the  dangerous  dialogue  end, 
with  a  sudden  safety  for  his  rival,  he  rose  abruptly 
and  paced  the  floor  in  painful  thought.  He  was, 
indeed,  in  an  agony  of  diplomacy.  It  was  clear 
that  Syme's  inspired  impudence  was  likely  to  bring 
him  out  of  all  merely  accidental  dilemmas.  Little 
was  to  be  hoped  from  them.  He  could  not  himself 
betray  Syme,  partly  from  honour,  but  partly  also 
because,  if  he  betrayed  him  and  for  some  reason 
failed  to  destroy  him,  the  Syme  who  escaped  w^ould 
be  a  Syme  freed  from  all  obligation  of  secrecy,  a 
Syme  who  would  simply  walk  to  the  nearest  police 
station.  After  all,  it  was  only  one  night's  discus- 
sion, and  only  one  detective  who  would  know  of  it. 
He  would  let  out  as  little  as  possible  of  their  plans 
that  night,  and  then  let  Syme  go,  and  chance  it. 

He  strode  across  to  the  group  of  anarchists,  which 
was  already  distributing  itself  along  the  benches. 

"I  think  it  is  time  we  began,"  he  said;  "the 
steam-tug  is  waiting  on  the  river  already.  I  move 
that  Comrade  Buttons  takes  the  chair." 

This  being  approved  by  a  show  of  hands,  the 
little  man  with  the  papers  slipped  into  the  presiden- 
tial seat. 


36         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  Comrades,"  he  began,  as  sharp  as  a  pistol-shot, 
*'  our  meeting  to-night  is  important,  though  it  need 
not  be  long.  This  branch  has  always  had  the 
honour  of  electing  Thursdays  for  the  Central 
European  Council.  We  have  elected  many  and 
splendid  Thursdays.  We  all  lament  the  sad  de- 
cease of  the  heroic  worker  who  occupied  the  post 
until  last  week.  As  you  know,  his  services  to  the 
cause  were  considerable.  He  organised  the  great 
dynamite  coup  of  Brighton  which,  under  happier 
circumstances,  ought  to  have  killed  everybody  on 
the  pier.  As  you  also  know,  his  death  was  as  self- 
denying  as  his  life,  for  he  died  through  his  faith  in 
a  hygienic  mixture  of  chalk  and  water  as  a  sub- 
stitute for  milk,  which  beverage  he  regarded  as 
barbaric,  and  as  involving  cruelty  to  the  cow. 
Cruelty,  or  anything  approaching  to  cruelty,  re- 
volted him  always.  But  it  is  not  to  acclaim  his 
virtues  that  we  are  met,  but  for  a  harder  task.  It 
is  difficult  properly  to  praise  his  qualities,  but  it  is 
more  difficult  to  replace  them.  Upon  you,  com- 
rades, it  devolves  this  evening  to  choose  out  of  the 
company  present  the  man  who  shall  be  Thurs«fey. 
If  any  comrade  suggests  a  name  I  will  put  it  to  the 
vote.  If  no  comrade  suggests  a  name,  I  can  only 
tell  myself  that  that  dear  dynamiter,  who  is  gone 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY         37 

from  us,  has  carried  into  the  unknowable  abysses 
the  last  secret  of  his  virtue  and  his  innocence." 

There  was  a  stir  of  almost  inaudible  applause, 
such  as  is  sometimes  heard  in  church.  Then  a  large 
old  man,  with  a  long  and  venerable  white  beard, 
perhaps  the  only  real  working-man  present,  rose 
lumberingly  and  said  — 

"  I  move  that  Comrade  Gregory  be  elected  Thurs- 
day," and  sat  lumberingly  down  again. 

"  Does  any  one  second  ?  "  asked  the  chairman. 

A  little  man  with  a  velvet  coat  and  pointed  beard 
seconded. 

"  Before  I  put  the  matter  to  the  vote,"  said  the 
chairman,  *'  I  will  call  on  Comrade  Gregory  to  make 
a  statement." 

Gregory  rose  amid  a  great  rumble  of  applause. 
His  face  was  deadly  pale,  so  that  by  contrast  his 
queer  red  hair  looked  almost  scarlet.  But  he  was 
smiling,  and  altogether  at  ease.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind,  and  he  saw  his  best  policy  quite  plain  in 
front  of  him  like  a  white  road.  His  best  chance 
was  to  make  a  softened  and  ambiguous  speech,  such 
as  would  leave  on  the  detective's  mind  the  impres- 
sion that  the  anarchist  brotherhood  was  a  very  mild 
affair  after  all.  He  believed  in  his  own  literary 
power,  his  capacity  for  suggesting  fine  shades  and 


38         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

picking  perfect  words.  He  thought  that  with  care 
he  could  succeed,  in  spite  of  all  the  people  around 
him,  in  conveying  an  impression  of  the  institution, 
subtly  and  dehcately  false.  Syme  had  once  thought 
that  anarchists,  under  all  their  bravado,  were  only 
playing  the  fool.  Could  he  not  now,  in  the  hour 
of  peril,  make  Syme  think  so  again  ? 

"  Comrades,"  began  Gregory,  in  a  low  but  pene- 
trating voice, "  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
what  is  my  policy,  for  it  is  your  policy  also.  Our 
belief  has  been  slandered,  it  has  been  disfigured,  it 
has  been  utterly  confused  and  concealed,  but  it  has 
never  been  altered.  Those  who  talk  about  anarch- 
ism and  its  dangers  go  everywhere  and  anywhere 
to  get  their  information,  except  to  us,  except  to  the 
fountain  head.  They  learn  about  anarchists  from 
sixpenny  novels ;  they  learn  about  anarchists  from 
tradesmen's  newspapers  ;  they  learn  about  anarch- 
ists from  Ally  Sloper's  Half-Holiday  and  the 
Sporting  Times.  They  never  learn  about  anarchists 
from  anarchists.  We  have  no  chance  of  denying 
the  mountainous  slanders  which  are  heaped  upon 
our  heads  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  another. 
The  man  who  has  always  heard  that  we  are  walk- 
ing plagues  has  never  heard  our  reply.  I  know 
that  he  will  not  hear  it  to-night,  though  my  passion 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY  39 

were  to  rend  the  roof.  For  it  is  deep,  deep  under 
the  earth  that  the  persecuted  are  permitted  to  as- 
semble, as  the  Christians  assembled  in  the  Cata- 
combs. But  if,  by  some  incredible  accident,  there 
were  here  to-night  a  man  who  all  his  life  had  thus 
immensely  misunderstood  us,  I  would  put  this  ques- 
tion to  him :  '  When  those  Christians  met  in  those 
Catacombs,  what  sort  of  moral  reputation  had  they 
in  the  streets  above  ?  What  tales  were  told  of  their 
atrocities  by  one  educated  Roman  to  another? 
Suppose '  (I  would  say  to  him),  '  suppose  that  we 
are  only  repeating  that  still  mysterious  paradox  of 
history.  Suppose  we  seem  as  shocking  as  the 
Christians  because  we  are  really  as  harmless  as  the 
Christians.  Suppose  we  seem  as  mad  as  the  Chris- 
tians because  we  are  really  as  meek.'  " 

The  applause  that  had  greeted  the  opening  sen- 
tences had  been  gradually  growing  fainter,  and  at 
the  last  word  it  stopped  suddenly.  In  the  abrupt 
silence,  the  man  with  the  velvet  jacket  said,  in  a 
high,  squeaky  voice  — 

"  I'm  not  meek  !  " 

"  Comrade  Witherspoon  tells  us,"  resumed  Greg- 
ory, "  that  he  is  not  meek.  Ah,  how  little  he 
knows  himself!  His  words  are,  indeed,  extrava- 
gant ;  his  appearance  is  ferocious,  and  even  (to  an 


40 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


ordinary  taste)  unattractive.  But  only  the  eye  of  a 
friendship  as  deep  and  dehcate  as  mine  can  perceive 
the  deep  foundation  of  soHd  meekness  which  hes 
at  the  base  of  him,  too  deep  even  for  himself  to 
see.  I  repeat,  we  are  the  true  early  Christians,  only 
that  we  come  too  late.  We  are  simple,  as  they 
were  simple — look  at  Comrade  Witherspoon.  We 
are   modest,  as   they   were   modest — look   at  me. 

We  are  merciful " 

"  No,  no  !  "  called  out  Mr.  Witherspoon  with  the 
velvet  jacket. 

"  I  say  we  are  merciful,"  repeated  Gregory  furi- 
ously, "  as  the  early  Christians  were  merciful.  Yet 
this  did  not  prevent  their  being  accused  of 
eating     human     flesh.     We    do    not    eat    human 

flesh " 

"  Shame  !  "  cried  Witherspoon.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  Comrade  Witherspoon,"  said  Gregory,  with  a 

feverish  gaiety,  "  is  anxious  to  know  why  nobody 

eats  him  (laughter).     In  our  society,  at  any  rate, 

which  loves  him  sincerely,  which  is  founded  upon 

love " 

•'  No,  no  !  "  said  Witherspoon, "  down  with  love." 

"  Which  is  founded  upon  love,"  repeated  Gregory, 

grinding  his  teeth, "  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about 

the  aims  which  we  shall  pursue  as  a  body,  or  which 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY         41 

I  should  pursue  were  I  chosen  as  the  representative 
of  that  body.  Superbly  careless  of  the  slanders 
that  represent  us  as  assassins  and  enemies  of  human 
society,  we  shall  pursue,  with  moral  courage  and 
quiet,  intellectual  pressure,  the  permanent  ideals  of 
brotherhood  and  simplicity." 

Gregory  resumed  his  seat  and  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  The  silence  was  sudden  and 
awkward,  but  the  chairman  rose  like  an  automaton, 
and  said  in  a  colourless  voice  — 

"  Does  any  one  oppose  the  election  of  Comrade 
Gregory  ?  " 

The  assembly  seemed  vague  and  sub-consciously 
disappointed,  and  Comrade  Witherspoon  moved 
restlessly  on  his  seat  and  muttered  in  his  thick 
beard.  By  the  sheer  rush  of  routine,  however,  the 
motion  would  have  been  put  and  carried.  But  as 
the  chairman  was  opening  his  mouth  to  put  it, 
Syme  sprang  to  his  feet  and  said  in  a  small  and 
quiet  voice  — 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Chairman,  I  oppose." 

The  most  effective  fact  in  oratory  is  an  unex- 
pected change  in  the  voice.  Mr.  Gabriel  Syme 
evidently  understood  oratory.  Having  said  these 
first  formal  words  in  a  moderated  tone  and  with  a 
brief  simplicity,  he  made  his  next  word  ring  and 


42         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

volley  in  the  vault  as  if  one  of  the  guns  had  gone 
off. 

"  Comrades  ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  that  made 
every  man  jump  out  of  his  boots,  "  have  we  come 
here  for  this  ?  Do  we  live  underground  like  rats 
in  order  to  listen  to  talk  like  this  ?  This  is  talk  we 
might  listen  to  while  eating  buns  at  a  Sunday- 
school  treat.  Do  we  line  these  walls  with  weapons 
and  bar  that  door  with  death  lest  any  one  should 
come  and  hear  Comrade  Gregory  saying  to  us,  *  Be 
good,  and  you  will  be  happy,'  *  Honesty  is  the 
best  policy,'  and  '  Virtue  is  its  own  reward '  ? 
There  was  not  a  word  in  Comrade  Gregory's  ad- 
dress to  which  a  curate  could  not  have  listened 
with  pleasure  (hear,  hear).  But  I  am  not  a  curate 
(loud  cheers),  and  I  did  not  listen  to  it  with  pleasure 
(renewed  cheers).  The  man  who  is  fitted  to  make 
a  good  curate  is  not  fitted  to  make  a  resolute, 
forcible,  and  efficient  Thursday  (hear,  hear). 

"  Comrade  Gregory  has  told  us,  in  only  too 
apologetic  a  tone,  that  we  are  not  the  enemies  of 
society.  But  I  say  that  we  are  the  enemies  of  so- 
ciety, and  so  much  the  worse  for  society.  We  are 
the  enemies  of  society,  for  society  is  the  enemy  of 
humanity,  its  oldest  and  its  most  pitiless  enemy 
(hear,   hear).      Comrade    Gregory    has    told    you 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY  43 

(apologetically  again)  that  we  are  not  murderers. 
There  I  agree.  We  are  not  murderers,  we  are 
executioners  (cheers)." 

Ever  since  Syme  had  risen  Gregory  had  sat 
staring  at  him,  his  face  idiotic  with  astonishment. 
Now  in  the  pause  his  lips  of  clay  parted,  and  he 
said,  with  an  automatic  and  lifeless  distinctness  — 

"  You  damnable  hypocrite  !  " 

Syme  looked  straight  into  those  frightful  eyes 
with  his  own  pale  blue  ones,  and  said  with 
dignity  — • 

"  Comrade  Gregory  accuses  me  of  hypocrisy.  He 
knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  I  am  keeping  all  my 
engagements  and  doing  nothing  but  my  duty.  I 
do  not  mince  words.  I  do  not  pretend  to.  I  say 
that  Comrade  Gregory  is  unfit  to  be  Thursday  for 
all  his  amiable  quahties.  He  is  unfit  to  be  Thurs- 
day because  of  his  amiable  qualities.  We  do  not 
want  the  Supreme  Council  of  Anarchy  infected 
with  a  maudlin  mercy  (hear,  hear).  This  is  no 
time  for  ceremonial  politeness,  neither  is  it  a  time 
for  ceremonial  modesty.  1  set  myself  against  Com- 
rade Gregory  as  I  would  set  myself  against  all  the 
Governments  of  Europe,  because  the  anarchist  who 
has  given  himself  to  anarchy  has  forgotten  modesty 
as  much  as  he  has  forgotten  pride  (cheers).     I  ann 


44         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

not  a  man  at  all ;  I  am  a  cause  (renewed  cheers). 
I  set  myself  against  Comrade  Gregory  as  imperson- 
ally and  as  calmly  as  I  should  choose  one  pistol 
rather  than  another  out  of  that  rack  upon  the  wall ; 
and  I  say  that  rather  than  have  Gregory  and  his 
milk-and-water  methods  on  the  Supreme  Council, 
I  would  offer  myself  for  election " 

His  sentence  was  drowned  in  a  deafening  cataract 
of  applause.  The  faces,  that  had  grown  fiercer  and 
fiercer  with  approval  as  his  tirade  grew  more  and 
more  uncompromising,  were  now  distorted  with 
grins  of  anticipation  or  cloven  with  delighted  cries. 
At  the  moment  when  he  announced  himself  as  ready 
to  stand  for  the  post  of  Thursday,  a  roar  of  excite- 
ment and  assent  broke  forth,  and  became  uncon- 
trollable, and  at  the  same  moment  Gregory  sprang 
to  his  feet,  with  foam  upon  his  mouth,  and  shouted 
against  the  shouting. 

"  Stop,  you  blasted  madmen ! "  he  cried,  at  the 
top  of  a  voice  that  tore  his  throat.    "  Stop,  you " 

But  louder  than  Gregory's  shouting  and  louder 
than  the  roar  of  the  room  came  the  voice  of  Syme, 
still  speaking  in  a  peal  of  pitiless  thunder  — 

"  I  do  not  go  to  the  Council  to  rebut  that  slander 
that  calls  us  murderers  ;  I  go  to  earn  it  (loud  and 
prolonged  cheering).     To  the  priest  who  says  these 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY  45 

men  are  the  enemies  of  religion,  to  the  judge  who 
says  these  men  are  the  enemies  of  law,  to  the  fat 
parliamentarian  who  says  these  men  are  the  ene- 
mies of  order  and  public  decency,  to  all  these  I  will 
reply,  '  You  are  false  kings,  but  you  are  true 
prophets.  I  am  come  to  destroy  you,  and  to  fulfill 
your  prophecies.' " 

The  heavy  clamour  gradually  died  away,  but 
before  it  had  ceased  Witherspoon  had  jumped  to 
his  feet,  his  hair  and  beard  all  on  end,  and  had 
said  — 

"  I  move,  as  an  amendment,  that  Comrade  Syme 
be  appointed  to  the  post." 

"  Stop  all  this,  I  tell  you ! "  cried  Gregory,  with 
frantic  face  and  hands.     "  Stop  it,  it  is  all " 

The  voice  of  the  chairman  clove  his  speech  with 
a  cold  accent. 

"  Does  any  one  second  this  amendment?  "  he  said. 

A  tall,  tired  man,  with  melancholy  eyes  and  an 
American  chin  beard,  was  observed  on  the  back 
bench  to  be  slowly  rising  to  his  feet.  Gregory  had 
been  screaming  for  some  time  past;  now  there  was 
a  change  in  his  accent,  more  shocking  than  any 
scream. 

"  I  end  all  this  ! "  he  said,  in  a  voice  as  heavy  as 
stone.    "  This  man  cannot  be  elected.    He  is  a " 


46         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme,  quite  motionless,  "  what  is 
he?" 

Gregory's  mouth  worked  twice  without  sound ; 
then  slowly  the  blood  began  to  crawl  back  into  his 
dead  face. 

"  He  is  a  man  quite  inexperienced  in  our  work," 
he  said,  and  sat  down  abruptly. 

Before  he  had  done  so,  the  long,  lean  man  with 
the  American  beard  was  again  upon  his  feet,  and 
was  repeating  in  a  high  American  monotone  — 

"  I  beg  to  second  the  election  of  Comrade  Syme." 

"  The  amendment  will,  as  usual,  be  put  first,"  said 
Mr.  Buttons,  the  chairman,  with  mechanical  rapidity. 
"  The  question  is  that  Comrade  Syme " 

Gregory  had  again  sprung  to  his  feet,  panting 
and  passionate. 

"  Comrades,"  he  cried  out, "  I  am  not  a  madman." 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  said  Mr.  Witherspoon. 

"  I  am  not  a  madman,"  reiterated  Gregory,  with 
a  frightful  sincerity  which  for  a  moment  staggered 
the  room, "  but  I  give  you  a  counsel  which  you  can 
call  mad  if  you  like.  No,  I  will  not  call  it  a  counsel, 
for  I  can  give  you  no  reason  for  it.  I  will  call  it  a 
command.  Call  it  a  mad  command,  but  act  upon 
it.  Strike,  but  hear  me  !  Kill  me,  but  obey  me ! 
Do  not  elect  this  man." 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY         47 

Truth  is  so  terrible,  even  in  fetters,  that  for  a  mo- 
ment Syme's  slender  and  insane  victory  swayed  like 
a  reed.  But  you  could  not  have  guessed  it  from 
Syme's  bleak  blue  eyes.     He  merely  began  — 

"  Comrade  Gregory  commands " 

Then  the  spell  was  snapped,  and  one  anarchist 
called  out  to  Gregory  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?  You  are  not  Sunday ;  "  and 
another  anarchist  added  in  a  heavier  voice,  "  And 
you  are  not  Thursday." 

"  Comrades,"  cried  Gregory,  in  a  voice  like  that 
of  a  martyr  v^rho  in  an  ecstasy  of  pain  has  passed 
beyond  pain,  "  it  is  nothing  to  me  whether  you 
detest  me  as  a  tyrant  or  detest  me  as  a  slave.  If 
you  will  not  take  my  command,  accept  my 
degradation.  I  kneel  to  you.  I  throw  myself  at 
your  feet.     I  implore  you.     Do  not  elect  this  man." 

"  Comrade  Gregory,"  said  the  chairman  after  a 
painful  pause,  "  this  is  really  not  quite  dignified." 

For  the  first  time  in  the  proceedings  there  was 
for  a  few  seconds  a  real  silence.  Then  Gregory  fell 
back  in  his  scat,  a  pale  wreck  of  a  man,  and  the 
chairman  repeated,  like  a  piece  of  clockwork  sud- 
denly started  again  — 

"  The  question  is  that  Comrade  Syme  be  elected 
to  the  post  of  Thursday  on  the  General  Council." 


48         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

The  roar  rose  like  the  sea,  the  hands  rose  like  a 
forest,  and  three  minutes  afterwards  Mr.  Gabriel 
Syme,  of  the  Secret  Police  Service,  was  elected  to 
the  post  of  Thursday  on  the  General  Council  of  the 
Anarchists  of  Europe. 

Every  one  in  the  room  seemed  to  feel  the  tug 
waiting  on  the  river,  the  sword-stick  and  the  re- 
volver, waiting  on  the  table.  The  instant  the  elec- 
tion was  ended  and  irrevocable,  and  Syme  had  re- 
ceived the  paper  proving  his  election,  they  all  sprang 
to  their  feet,  and  the  fiery  groups  moved  and  mixed 
in  the  room.  Syme  found  himself,  somehow  or 
other,  face  to  face  with  Gregory,  who  still  regarded 
him  with  a  stare  of  stunned  hatred.  They  were 
silent  for  many  minutes. 

"  You  are  a  devil !  "  said  Gregory  at  last. 

**  And  you  are  a  gentleman,"  said  Syme  with 
gravity. 

"  It  was  you  that  entrapped  me,"  began 
Gregory,  shaking  from  head  to  foot,"  entrapped 
me  into " 

"  Talk  sense,"  said  Syme  shortly.  "  Into  what 
sort  of  devils'  parliament  have  you  entrapped  me, 
if  it  comes  to  that  ?  You  made  me  swear  before  I 
made  you.  Perhaps  we  are  both  doing  what  we 
think  right.     But  what  we  think  right  is  so  damned 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY         49 

different  that  there  can  be  nothing  between  us  in 
the  way  of  concession.  There  is  nothing  possible 
between  us  but  honour  and  death,"  and  he  pulled 
the  great  cloak  about  his  shoulders  and  picked  up 
the  flask  from  the  table. 

"  The  boat  is  quite  ready,"  said  Mn  Buttons, 
bustling  up.  "  Be  good  enough  to  step  this 
way." 

With  a  gesture  that  revealed  the  shopwalker,  he 
led  Syme  down  a  short,  iron-bound  passage,  the 
still  agonised  Gregory  following  feverishly  at  their 
heels.  At  the  end  of  the  passage  was  a  door,  which 
Buttons  opened  sharply,  showing  a  sudden  blue  and 
silver  picture  of  the  moonlit  river,  that  looked  like 
a  scene  in  a  theatre.  Close  to  the  opening  lay  a 
dark,  dwarfish  steam-launch,  like  a  baby  dragon  with 
one  red  eye. 

Almost  in  the  act  of  stepping  on  board,  Gabriel 
Syme  turned  to  the  gaping  Gregory. 

"  You  have  kept  your  word,"  he  said  gently,  with 
his  face  in  shadow.  "  You  are  a  man  of  honour, 
and  I  thank  you.  You  have  kept  it  even  down  to 
a  small  particular.  There  was  one  special  thing  you 
promised  me  at  the  beginning  of  the  affair,  and 
which  you  have  certainly  given  me  by  the  end 
of  it." 


50         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  the  chaotic  Greg- 
ory.    "  What  did  I  promise  you  ?  " 

"  A  very  entertaining  evening,"  said  Syme,  and 
he  made  a  military  salute  with  the  sword-stick  as 
the  steamboat  slid  away. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   TALE   OF   A    DETECTIVE 

Gabriel  Syme  was  not  merely  a  detective  who 
pretended  to  be  a  poet ;  he  was  really  a  poet  who 
had  become  a  detective.  Nor  was  his  hatred  of 
anarchy  hypocritical.  He  was  one  of  those  who 
are  driven  early  in  life  into  too  conservative  an  atti- 
tude by  the  bewildering  folly  of  most  revolutionists. 
He  had  not  attained  it  by  any  tame  tradition.  His 
respectability  was  spontaneous  and  sudden,  a  re- 
bellion against  rebellion.  He  came  of  a  family  of 
cranks,  in  which  all  the  oldest  people  had  all  the 
newest  notions.  One  of  his  uncles  always  walked 
about  without  a  hat,  and  another  had  made  an  un- 
successful attempt  to  walk  about  with  a  hat  and 
nothing  else.  His  father  cultivated  art  and  self- 
realisation  ;  his  mother  went  in  for  simplicity  and 
hygiene.  Hence  the  child,  during  his  tenderer 
years,  was  wholly  unacquainted  with  any  drink  be- 
tween the  extremes  of  absinth  and  cocoa,  of  both 
of  which  he  had  a  healthy  dislike.  The  more  his 
mother  preached  a  more  than  Puritan  abstinence 

51 


52         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

the  more  did  his  father  expand  into  a  more  than 
pagan  latitude;  and  by  the  time  the  former  had 
come  to  enforcing  vegetarianism,  the  latter  had 
pretty  well  reached  the  point  of  defending  canni- 
balism. 

Being  surrounded  with  every  conceivable  kind  of 
revolt  from  infancy,  Gabriel  had  to  revolt  into  some- 
thing, so  he  revolted  into  the  only  thing  left — 
sanity.  But  there  was  just  enough  in  him  of  the 
blood  of  these  fanatics  to  make  even  his  protest  for 
common-sense  a  little  too  fierce  to  be  sensible.  His 
hatred  of  modern  lawlessness  had  been  crowned  also 
by  an  accident.  It  happened  that  he  was  walking 
in  a  side  street  at  the  instant  of  a  dynamite  outrage. 
He  had  been  blind  and  deaf  for  a  moment,  and  then 
seen,  the  smoke  clearing,  the  broken  windows  and 
the  bleeding  faces.  After  that  he  went  about  as 
usual — quiet,  courteous,  rather  gentle ;  but  there  was 
a  spot  on  his  mind  that  was  not  sane.  He  did  not 
regard  anarchists,  as  most  of  us  do,  as  a  handful  of 
morbid  men,  combining  ignorance  with  intellectual- 
ism.  He  regarded  them  as  a  huge  and  pitiless  peril, 
like  a  Chinese  invasion. 

He  poured  perpetually  into  newspapers  and  their 
waste-paper  baskets  a  torrent  of  tales,  verses  and 
violent  articles,  warning  men  of  this  deluge  of  bar- 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  53 

baric  denial.  But  he  seemed  to  be  getting  no  nearer 
his  enemy,  and,  what  was  worse,  no  nearer  a  hving. 
As  he  paced  the  Thames  embankment,  bitterly  bit- 
ing a  cheap  cigar  and  brooding  on  the  advance  of 
Anarchy,  there  was  no  anarchist  with  a  bomb  in  his 
pocket  so  savage  or  so  sohtary  as  he.  Indeed,  he 
always  felt  that  Government  stood  alone  and 
desperate,  with  its  back  to  the  wall.  He  was  too 
quixotic  to  have  cared  for  it  otherwise. 

He  walked  on  the  Embankment  once  under  a 
dark  red  sunset.  The  red  river  reflected  the  red 
sky,  and  they  both  reflected  his  anger.  The  sky, 
indeed,  was  so  swarthy,  and  the  light  on  the  river 
relatively  so  lurid,  that  the  water  almost  seemed  of 
fiercer  flame  than  the  sunset  it  mirrored.  It  looked 
like  a  stream  of  literal  fire  winding  under  the  vast 
caverns  of  a  subterranean  country. 

Syme  was  shabby  in  those  days.  He  wore  an  old- 
fashioned  black  chimney-pot  hat ;  he  was  wrapped 
in  a  yet  more  old-fashioned  cloak,  black  and  ragged  ; 
and  the  combination  gave  him  the  look  of  the  early 
villains  in  Dickens  and  Bulwer  Lytton.  Also  his 
yellow  beard  and  hair  were  more  unkempt  and 
leonine  than  when  they  appeared  long  afterwards, 
cut  and  pointed,  on  the  lawns  of  Saffron  Park.  A 
long,  lean,  black   cigar,  bought   in  Soho  for  two- 


54         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

pence,  stood  out  from  between  his  tightened  teeth, 
and  altogether  he  looked  a  very  satisfactory  specimen 
of  the  anarchists  upon  whom  he  had  vowed  a  holy 
war.  Perhaps  this  was  why  a  policeman  on  the 
Embankment  spoke  to  him,  and  said  "  Good 
evening." 

Syme,  at  a  crisis  of  his  morbid  fears  for  hu- 
manity, seemed  stung  by  the  mere  stohdity  of  the 
automatic  official,  a  mere  bulk  of  blue  in  the 
twilight. 

"  A  good  evening  is  it  ?  "  he  said  sharply.  "  You 
fellows  would  call  the  end  of  the  world  a  good 
evening.  Look  at  that  bloody  red  sun  and  that 
bloody  river !  I  tell  you  that  if  that  were  literally 
human  blood,  spilt  and  shining,  you  would  still  be 
standing  here  as  solid  as  ever,  looking  out  for  some 
poor  harmless  tramp  whom  you  could  move  on. 
You  policemen  are  cruel  to  the  poor,  but  I  could 
forgive  you  even  your  cruelty  if  it  were  not  for  your 
calm." 

"  If  we  are  calm,"  replied  the  policeman,  "  it  is 
the  calm  of  organised  resistance." 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Syme,  staring. 

"  The  soldier  must  be  calm  in  the  thick  of  the 
battle,"  pursued  the  policeman.  "  The  composure 
of  an  army  is  the  anger  of  a  nation." 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  55 

"  Gopd  God,  the  Board  Schools  ! "  said  Syme. 
"  Is  this  undenominational  education  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  policeman  sadly, "  I  never  had  any 
of  those  advantages.  The  Board  Schools  came 
after  my  time.  What  education  I  had  was  very 
rough  and  old-fashioned,  I  am  afraid." 

"  Where  did  you  have  it  ? "  asked  Syme,  won- 
dering. 

"  Oh,  at  Harrow,"  said  the  policeman. 

The  class  sympathies  which,  false  as  they  are, 
are  the  truest  things  in  so  many  men,  broke  out  of 
Syme  before  he  could  control  them. 

"  But,  good  Lord,  man,"  he  said,  "  you  oughtn't 
to  be  a  policeman  !  " 

The  policeman  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

**  I  know,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  I  know  I  am  not 
worthy." 

"  But  why  did  you  join  the  police  ?  "  asked  Syme 
with  rude  curiosity. 

"  For  much  the  same  reason  that  you  abused  the 
police,"  replied  the  other.  "  I  found  that  there  was 
a  special  opening  in  the  service  for  those  whose  fears 
for  humanity  were  concerned  rather  with  the  aber- 
rations of  the  scientific  intellect  than  with  the 
normal  and  excusable,  though  excessive,  outbreaks 
of  the  human  will.     I  trust  I  make  myself  clear." 


56         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  If  you  mean  that  you  make  your  opinion  clear," 
said  Syme,  "  I  suppose  you  do.  But  as  for  making 
yourself  clear,  it  is  the  last  thing  you  do.  How 
comes  a  man  like  you  to  be  talking  philosophy  in  a 
blue  helmet  on  the  Thames  embankment  ?  " 

"  You  have  evidently  not  heard  of  the  latest  de- 
velopment in  our  police  system,"  replied  the  other. 
"  I  am  not  surprised  at  it.  We  are  keeping  it 
rather  dark  from  the  educated  class,  because  that 
class  contains  most  of  our  enemies.  But  you  seem 
to  be  exactly  in  the  right  frame  of  mind.  I  think 
you  might  almost  join  us." 

"  Join  you  in  vi^hat?"  asked  Syme. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  said  the  policeman  slowly. 
"  This  is  the  situation :  The  head  of  one  of  our 
departments,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  detectives 
in  Europe,  has  long  been  of  opinion  that  a  purely 
intellectual  conspiracy  would  soon  threaten  the 
very  existence  of  civilisation.  He  is  certain  that 
the  scientific  and  artistic  worlds  are  silently  bound 
in  a  crusade  against  the  Family  and  the  State.  He 
has,  therefore,  formed  a  special  corps  of  policemen, 
policemen  who  are  also  philosophers.  It  is  their 
business  to  watch  the  beginnings  of  this  conspiracy, 
not  merely  in  a  criminal  but  in  a  controversial 
sense.     I  am  a  democrat  myself,  and  I  am  fully 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  57 

aware  of  the  value  of  the  ordinary  man  in  matters 
of  ordinary  valour  or  virtue.  But  it  would  obvi- 
ously be  undesirable  to  employ  the  common  police- 
man in  an  investigation  which  is  also  a  heresy 
hunt." 

Syme's  eyes  were  bright  with  a  sympathetic 
curiosity. 

"  What  do  you  do,  then  ?  "  he  said. 

"  The  work  of  the  philosophical  policeman," 
replied  the  man  in  blue,  "  is  at  once  bolder  and 
more  subtle  than  that  of  the  ordinary  detective. 
The  ordinary  detective  goes  to  pot-houses  to  arrest 
thieves ;  we  go  to  artistic  tea-parties  to  detect 
pessimists.  The  ordinary  detective  discovers  from 
a  ledger  or  a  diary  that  a  crime  has  been  com- 
mitted. We  discover  from  a  book  of  sonnets  that 
a  crime  will  be  committed.  We  have  to  trace  the 
origin  of  those  dreadful  thoughts  that  drive  men 
on  at  last  to  intellectual  fanaticism  and  intellectual 
crime.  We  were  only  just  in  time  to  prevent  the 
assassination  at  Hartlepool,  and  that  was  entirely 
due  to  the  fact  that  our  Mr.  Wilks  (a  smart  young 
fellow)  thoroughly  understood  a  triolet." 

"  Do  you  mean,"  asked  Syme,  '•  that  there  is 
really  as  much  connection  between  crime  and  the 
modern  intellect  as  all  that  ?  " 


58  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  You  are  not  sufficiently  democratic,"  answered 
the  policeman,  "  but  you  were  right  when  you  said 
just  now  that  our  ordinary  treatment  of  the  poor 
criminal  was  a  pretty  brutal  business.  I  tell  you 
I  am  sometimes  sick  of  my  trade  when  I  see  how 
perpetually  it  means  merely  a  war  upon  the  ignorant 
and  the  desperate.  But  this  new  movement  of 
ours  is  a  very  different  affair.  We  deny  the  snob- 
bish English  assumption  that  the  uneducated  are 
the  dangerous  criminals.  We  remember  the  Ro- 
man Emperors.  We  remember  the  great  poison- 
ing princes  of  the  Renaissance.  We  say  that  the 
dangerous  criminal  is  the  educated  criminal.  We 
say  that  the  most  dangerous  criminal  now  is  the 
entirely  lawless  modern  philosopher.  Compared  to 
him,  burglars  and  bigamists  are  essentially  moral 
men  ;  my  heart  goes  out  to  them.  They  accept  the 
essential  ideal  of  man  ;  they  merely  seek  it  wrongly. 
Thieves  respect  property.  They  merely  wish  the 
property  to  become  their  property  that  they  may 
more  perfectly  respect  it.  But  philosophers  dislike 
property  as  property;  they  wish  to  destroy  the 
very  idea  of  personal  possession.  Bigamists  re- 
spect marriage,  or  they  would  not  go  through  the 
highly  ceremonial  and  even  ritualistic  formality  of 
bigamy.      But    philosophers    despise   marriage   as 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  59 

marriage.  Murderers  respect  human  life ;  they 
merely  wish  to  attain  a  greater  fulness  of  human 
life  in  themselves  by  the  sacrifice  of  what  seems  to 
them  to  be  lesser  lives.  But  philosophers  hate  life 
itself,  their  own  as  much  as  other  people's." 

Syme  struck  his  hands  together. 

•'  How  true  that  is,"  he  cried.  "  I  have  felt  it 
from  my  boyhood,  but  never  could  state  the  verbal 
antithesis.  The  common  criminal  is  a  bad  man, 
but  at  least  he  is,  as  it  were,  a  conditional  good 
man.  He  says  that  if  only  a  certain  obstacle  be 
removed — say  a  wealthy  uncle — he  is  then  pre- 
pared to  accept  the  universe  and  to  praise  God. 
He  is  a  reformer,  but  not  an  anarchist.  He  wishes 
to  cleanse  the  edifice,  but  not  to  destroy  it.  But 
the  evil  philosopher  is  not  trying  to  alter  things, 
but  to  annihilate  them.  Yes,  the  modern  world  has 
retained  all  those  parts  of  police  work  which  are 
really  oppressive  and  ignominious,  the  harrying  of 
the  poor,  the  spying  upon  the  unfortunate.  It  has 
given  up  its  more  dignified  work,  the  punishment 
of  powerful  traitors  in  the  State  and  powerful 
heresiarchs  in  the  Church.  The  moderns  say  we 
must  not  punish  heretics.  My  only  doubt  is 
whether  we  have  a  right  to  punish  anybody  else." 

"  But  this  is  absurd  !  "  cried  the  policeman,  clasp- 


6o         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

ing  his  hands  with  an  excitement  uncommon  in 
persons  of  his  figure  and  costume,  "  but  it  is  in- 
tolerable !  I  don't  know  what  you're  doing,  but 
you're  wasting  your  life.  You  must,  you  shall,  join 
our  special  army  against  anarchy.  Their  armies 
are  on  our  frontiers.  Their  bolt  is  ready  to  fall. 
A  moment  more,  and  you  may  lose  the  glory  of 
working  with  us,  perhaps  the  glory  of  dying  with 
the  last  heroes  of  the  world." 

"  It  is  a  chance  not  to  be  missed,  certainly,"  as- 
sented Syme,  "  but  still  I  do  not  quite  understand. 
I  know  as  well  as  anybody  that  the  modern  world 
is  full  of  lawless  little  men  and  mad  little  move- 
ments. But,  beastly  as  they  are,  they  generally 
have  the  one  merit  of  disagreeing  with  each  other. 
How  can  you  talk  of  their  leading  one  army  or 
hurling  one  bolt.     What  is  this  anarchy  ?  " 

"  Do  not  confuse  it,"  replied  the  constable,  "  with 
those  chance  dynamite  outbreaks  from  Russia  or 
from  Ireland,  which  are  really  the  outbreaks  of 
oppressed,  if  mistaken,  men.  This  is  a  vast  philo- 
sophic movement,  consisting  of  an  outer  and  an 
inner  ring.  You  might  even  call  the  outer  ring  the 
laity  and  the  inner  ring  the  priesthood.  I  prefer  to 
call  the  outer  ring  the  innocent  section,  the  inner 
ring  the  supremely  guilty  section.     The  outer  ring 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  61 

— the  main  mass  of  their  supporters — are  merely 
anarchists;  that  is,  men  who  beheve  that  rules  and 
formulas  have  destroyed  human  happiness.  They 
believe  that  all  the  evil  results  of  human  crime  are 
the  results  of  the  system  that  has  called  it  crime. 
They  do  not  believe  that  the  crime  creates  the  pun- 
ishment. They  believe  that  the  punishment  has 
created  the  crime.  They  believe  that  if  a  man 
seduced  seven  women  he  would  naturally  walk  away 
as  blameless  as  the  flowers  of  spring.  They  believe 
that  if  a  man  picked  a  pocket  he  would  naturally 
feel  exquisitely  good.  These  I  call  the  innocent 
section." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Syme. 

"  Naturally,  therefore,  these  people  talk  about 
*  a  happy  time  coming ' ;  •  the  paradise  of  the 
future ' ;  '  mankind  freed  from  the  bondage  of  vice 
and  the  bondage  of  virtue,'  and  so  on.  And  so  also 
the  men  of  the  inner  circle  speak — the  sacred  priest- 
hood. They  also  speak  to  applauding  crowds  of 
the  happiness  of  the  future,  and  of  mankind  freed 
at  last.  But  in  their  mouths  " — and  the  policeman 
lowered  his  voice — "  in  their  mouths  these  happy 
phrases  have  a  horrible  meaning.  They  are  under 
no  illusions ;  they  are  too  intellectual  to  think  that 
man    upon    this    earth    can    ever  be  quite  free  of 


62         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

original  sin  and  the  struggle.  And  they  mean 
death.  When  they  say  that  mankind  shall  be  free 
at  last,  they  mean  that  mankind  shall  commit  sui- 
cide. When  they  talk  of  a  paradise  without  right 
or  wrong,  they  mean  the  grave.  They  have  but 
two  objects,  to  destroy  first  humanity  and  then 
themselves.  That  is  why  they  throw  bombs  in- 
stead of  firing  pistols.  The  innocent  rank  and  file 
are  disappointed  because  the  bomb  has  not  killed 
the  king;  but  the  high-priesthood  are  happy  because 
it  has  killed  somebody." 

"  How  can  I  join  you?  "  asked  Syme,  with  a  sort 
of  passion. 

"  I  know  for  a  fact  that  there  is  a  vacancy  at  the 
moment,"  said  the  policeman,  "  as  I  have  the  honour 
to  be  somewhat  in  the  confidence  of  the  chief  of 
whom  I  have  spoken.  You  should  really  come  and 
see  him.  Or  rather,  I  should  not  say  see  him, 
nobody  ever  sees  him ;  but  you  can  talk  to  him  if 
you  like." 

"  Telephone  ?  "  inquired  Syme,  with  interest. 

"  No,"  said  the  policeman  placidly,  "  he  has  a 
fancy  for  always  sitting  in  a  pitch-dark  room.  He 
says  it  makes  his  thoughts  brighter.  Do  come 
along." 

Somewhat  dazed  and  considerably  excited,  Syme 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  63 

allowed  himself  to  be  led  to  a  side-door  in  the  long 
row  of  buildings  of  Scotland  Yard.  Almost  before 
he  knew  what  he  was  doing,  he  had  been  passed 
through  the  hands  of  about  four  intermediate 
officials,  and  was  suddenly  shown  into  a  room,  the 
abrupt  blackness  of  which  startled  him  like  a  blaze 
of  light.  It  was  not  the  ordinary  darkness,  in  which 
forms  can  be  faintly  traced ;  it  was  like  going  sud- 
denly stone-blind. 

"  Are  you  the  new  recruit  ?  "  asked  a  heavy  voice. 

And  in  some  strange  way,  though  there  was  not 
the  shadow  of  a  shape  in  the  gloom,  Syme  knew 
two  things :  first,  that  it  came  from  a  man  of 
massive  stature ;  and  second,  that  the  man  had  his 
back  to  him. 

"  Are  you  the  new  recruit  ?  "  said  the  invisible 
chief,  who  seemed  to  have  heard  all  about  it.  "  All 
right.     You  are  engaged." 

Syme,  quite  swept  off  his  feet,  made  a  feeble  fight 
against  this  irrevocable  phrase. 

"  I  really  have  no  experience,"  he  began. 

"  No  one  has  any  experience,"  said  the  other, 
"of  the  Battle  of  Armageddon." 

"  But  I  am  really  unfit " 

"  You  are  willing,  that  is  enough,"  said  the  un- 
known. 


64         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  Well,  really,"  said  Syme,  "  I  don't  know  any 
profession  of  which  mere  willingness  is  the  final 
test." 

"  I  do,"  said  the  other — "  martyrs.  I  am  con- 
demning you  to  death.     Good-day." 

Thus  it  was  that  when  Gabriel  Syme  came  out 
again  into  the  crimson  light  of  evening,  in  his  shabby 
black  hat  and  shabby,  lawless  cloak,  he  came  out  a 
member  of  the  New  Detective  Corps  for  the  frustra- 
tion of  the  great  conspiracy.  Acting  under  the  ad- 
vice of  his  friend  the  policeman  (who  was  profes- 
sionally incHned  to  neatness),  he  trimmed  his  hair 
and  beard,  bought  a  good  hat,  clad  himself  in  an 
exquisite  summer  suit  of  light  blue-grey,  with  a  pale 
yellow  flower  in  the  buttonhole,  and,  in  short,  be- 
came that  elegant  and  rather  insupportable  person 
whom  Gregory  had  first  encountered  in  the  little 
garden  of  Saffron  Park.  Before  he  finally  left  the 
police  premises  his  friend  provided  him  with  a  small 
blue  card,  on  which  was  written, "  The  Last  Crusade," 
and  a  number,  the  sign  of  his  official  authority.  He 
put  this  carefully  in  his  upper  waistcoat  pocket,  lit  a 
cigarette,  and  went  forth  to  track  and  fight  the  enemy 
in  all  the  drawing-rooms  of  London.  Where  his 
adventure  ultimately  led  him  we  have  already  seen. 
At  about  half-past  one  on  a  February  night  he 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  65 

found  himself  steaming  in  a  small  tug  up  the  silent 
Thames,  armed  with  sword-stick  and  revolver,  the 
duly  elected  Thursday  of  the  Central  Council  of 
Anarchists. 

When  Syme  stepped  out  on  to  the  steam-tug  he 
had  a  singular  sensation  of  stepping  out  into  some- 
thing entirely  new ;  not  merely  into  the  landscape 
of  a  new  land,  but  even  into  the  landscape  of  a  new 
planet.  This  was  mainly  due  to  the  insane  yet  solid 
decision  of  that  evening,  though  partly  also  to  an 
entire  change  in  the  weather  and  the  sky  since  he 
entered  the  little  tavern  some  two  hours  before. 
Every  trace  of  the  passionate  plumage  of  the  cloudy 
sunset  had  been  swept  away,  and  a  naked  moon 
stood  in  a  naked  sky.  The  moon  was  so  strong  and 
full,  that  (by  a  paradox  often  to  be  noticed)  it  seemed 
like  a  weaker  sun.  It  gave,  not  the  sense  of  bright 
moonshine,  but  rather  of  a  dead  daylight. 

Over  the  whole  landscape  lay  a  luminous  and  un- 
natural discoloration,  as  of  that  disastrous  twilight 
which  Milton  spoke  of  as  shed  by  the  sun  in  eclipse  ; 
so  that  Syme  fell  easily  into  his  first  thought,  that 
he  was  actually  on  some  other  and  emptier  planet, 
which  circled  round  some  sadder  star.  But  the  more 
he  felt  this  glittering  desolation  in  the  moonlit  land, 
the  more  his  own  chivalric  folly  glowed  in  the  night 


66  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

like  a  great  fire.  Even  the  common  things  he  car- 
ried with  him — the  food  and  the  brandy  and  the 
loaded  pistol — took  on  exactly  that  concrete  and 
material  poetry  which  a  child  feels  when  he  takes  a 
gun  upon  a  journey  or  a  bun  with  him  to  bed.  The 
sword-stick  and  the  brandy-flask,  though  in  them- 
selves only  the  tools  of  morbid  conspirators,  became 
the  expressions  of  his  own  more  healthy  romance. 
The  sword-stick  became  almost  the  sword  of  chiv- 
alry, and  the  brandy  the  wine  of  the  stirrup-cup. 
For  even  the  most  dehumanised  modern  fantasies 
depend  on  some  older  and  simpler  figure ;  the  ad- 
ventures may  be  mad,  but  the  adventurer  must  be 
sane.  The  dragon  without  St.  George  would  not 
even  be  grotesque.  So  this  inhuman  landscape  was 
only  imaginative  by  the  presence  of  a  man  really 
human.  To  Syme's  exaggerative  mind  the  bright, 
bleak  houses  and  terraces  by  the  Thames  looked  as 
empty  as  the  mountains  of  the  moon.  But  even 
the  moon  is  only  poetical  because  there  is  a  man  in 
the  moon. 

The  tug  was  worked  by  two  men,  and  with  much 
toil  went  comparatively  slowly.  The  clear  moon  that 
had  lit  up  Chiswick  had  gone  down  by  the  time  that 
they  passed  Battersea,  and  when  they  came  under 
the  enormous  bulk  of  Westminster  day  had  already 


THE  TALE  OF  A  DETECTIVE  67 

begun  to  break.  It  broke  like  the  splitting  of  great 
bars  of  lead,  showing  bars  of  silver ;  and  these  had 
brightened  like  white  fire  when  the  tug,  changing 
its  onward  course,  turned  inward  to  a  large  landing 
stage  rather  beyond  Charing  Cross. 

The  great  stones  of  the  Embankment  seemed 
equally  dark  and  gigantic  as  Syme  looked  up  at 
them.  They  were  big  and  black  against  the  huge 
white  dawn.  They  made  him  feel  that  he  was  land- 
ing on  the  colossal  steps  of  some  Egyptian  palace ; 
and  indeed  the  thing  suited  his  mood,  for  he  was, 
in  his  own  mind,  mounting  to  attack  the  solid 
thrones  of  horrible  and  heathen  kings.  He  leapt 
out  of  the  boat  on  to  one  slimy  step,  and  stood,  a 
dark  and  slender  figure,  amid  the  enormous  masonry. 
The  two  men  in  the  tug  put  her  off  again  and  turned 
up  stream.     They  had  never  spoken  a  word. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   FEAST   OF   FEAR 

At  first  the  large  stone  stair  seemed  to  Syme  as 
deserted  as  a  pyramid ;  but  before  he  reached  the 
top  he  had  rea'lised  that  there  was  a  man  leaning 
over  the  parapet  of  the  Embankment  and  looking 
out  across  the  river.  As  a  figure  he  was  quite  con- 
ventional, clad  in  a  silk  hat  and  frock-coat  of  the 
more  formal  type  of  fashion  ;  he  had  a  red  flower  in 
hi?  buttonhole.  As  Syme  drew  nearer  to  him  step 
by  step,  he  did  not  even  move  a  hair ;  and  Syme 
could  come  close  enough  to  notice  even  in  the  dim, 
pale  morning  light  that  his  face  was  long,  pale  and 
intellectual,  and  ended  in  a  small  triangular  tuft  of 
dark  beard  at  the  very  point  of  the  chin,  all  else 
being  clean-shaven.  This  scrap  of  hair  almost 
seemed  a  mere  oversight ;  the  rest  of  the  face  was 
of  the  type  that  is  best  shaven — clear-cut,  ascetic, 
and  in  its  way  noble.  Syme  drew  closer  and  closer, 
noting  all  this,  and  still  the  figure  did  not  stir. 

At  first  an  instinct  had  told  Syme  that  this  was 
the  man  whom  he  was  meant  to  meet.     Then,  see- 

68 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  69 

ing  that  the  man  made  no  sign,  he  had  concluded 
that  he  was  not.  And  now  again  he  had  come 
back  to  a  certainty  that  the  man  had  something  to 
do  with  his  mad  adventure.  For  the  man  remained 
more  still  than  would  have  been  natural  if  a  stranger 
had  come  so  close.  He  was  as  motionless  as  a  wax- 
work, and  got  on  the  nerves  somewhat  in  the  same 
way.  Syme  looked  again  and  again  at  the  pale, 
dignified  and  delicate  face,  and  the  face  still  looked 
blankly  across  the  river.  Then  he  took  out  of  his 
pocket  the  note  from  Buttons  proving  his  election, 
and  put  it  before  that  sad  and  beautiful  face.  Then 
the  man  smiled ;  and  his  smile  was  a  shock,  for  it 
was  all  on  one  side,  going  up  in  the  right  cheek  and 
down  in  the  left. 

There  was  nothing,  rationally  speaking,  to  scare 
any  one  about  this.  Many  people  have  this  nervous 
trick  of  a  crooked  smile,  and  in  many  it  is  even  at- 
tractive. But  in  all  Syme's  circumstances,  with  the 
dark  dawn  and  the  deadly  errand  and  the  loneliness 
on  the  great  dripping  stones,  there  was  something 
unnerving  in  it.  There  was  the  silent  river  and  the 
silent  man,  a  man  of  even  classic  face.  And  there 
was  the  last  nightmare  touch  that  his  smile  suddenly 
went  wrong. 

The  spasm  of  smile  was  instantaneous,  and  the 


70  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

man's  face  dropped  at  once  into  its  harmonious 
melancholy.  He  spoke  without  further  explanation 
or  inquiry,  like  a  man  speaking  to  an  old  colleague. 

"  If  we  walk  up  towards  Leicester  Square,"  he 
said,  "  we  shall  just  be  in  time  for  breakfast.  Sun- 
day always  insists  on  an  early  breakfast.  Have  you 
had  any  sleep  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Syme. 

"  Nor  have  I,"  answered  the  man  in  an  ordinary 
tone.     "  I  shall  try  to  get  to  bed  after  breakfast." 

He  spoke  with  casual  civility,  but  in  an  utterly 
dead  voice  that  contradicted  the  fanaticism  of  his 
face.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  all  friendly  words 
were  to  him  lifeless  conveniences,  and  that  his  only 
life  was  hate.     After  a  pause  the  man  spoke  again. 

"  Of  course,  the  Secretary  of  the  branch  told  you 
everything  that  can  be  told.  But  the  one  thing 
that  can  never  be  told  is  the  last  notion  of  the 
President,  for  his  notions  grow  like  a  tropical  forest. 
So  in  case  you  don't  know,  I'd  better  tell  you  that 
he  is  carrying  out  his  notion  of  concealing  ourselves 
by  not  concealing  ourselves  to  the  most  extraor- 
dinary lengths  just  now.  Originally,  of  course,  we 
met  in  a  cell  underground,  just  as  your  branch  does. 
Then  Sunday  made  us  take  a  private  room  at  an 
ordinary  restaurant.     He   said   that   if  you  didn't 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  71 

seem  to  be  hiding  nobody  hunted  you  out.  Well, 
he  is  the  only  man  on  earth,  I  know  ;  but  some- 
times I  really  think  that  his  huge  brain  is  going  a 
httle  mad  in  its  old  age.  For  now  we  flaunt  our- 
selves before  the  public.  We  have  our  breakfast 
on  a  balcony — on  a  balcony,  if  you  please — over- 
looking Leicester  Square." 

"  And  what  do  the  people  say  ?  "  asked  Syme. 

"  It's  quite  simple  what  they  say,"  answered  his 
guide.  "  They  say  we  are  a  lot  of  jolly  gentlemen 
who  pretend  they  are  anarchists." 

"  It  seems  to  me  a  very  clever  idea,"  said  Syme. 

"  Clever  !  God  blast  your  impudence  !  Clever  !  " 
cried  out  the  other  in  a  sudden,  shrill  voice  which 
was  as  startling  and  discordant  as  his  crooked  smile. 
"  When  you've  seen  Sunday  for  a  split  second  you'll 
leave  off  calling  him  clever." 

With  this  they  emerged  out  of  a  narrow  street, 
and  saw  the  early  sunlight  filling  Leicester  Square. 
It  will  never  be  known,  I  suppose,  why  this  square 
itself  should  look  so  alien  and  in  some  ways  so  con- 
tinental. It  will  never  be  known  whether  it  was  the 
foreign  look  that  attracted  the  foreigners  or  the 
foreigners  who  gave  it  the  foreign  look.  But  on 
this  particular  morning  the  effect  seemed  singularly 
bright  and  clear.     Between  the  open  square  and  the 


72  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

sunlit  leaves  and  the  statue  and  the  Saracenic  out- 
lines of  the  Alhambra,  it  looked  the  replica  of  some 
French  or  even  Spanish  public  place.  And  this  effect 
increased  in  Syme  the  sensation,  which  in  many 
shapes  he  had  had  through  the  whole  adventure,  the 
eerie  sensation  of  having  strayed  into  a  new  world. 
As  a  fact,  he  had  bought  bad  cigars  round  Leicester 
Square  ever  since  he  was  a  boy.  But  as  he  turned 
that  corner,  and  saw  the  trees  and  the  Moorish 
cupolas,  he  could  have  sworn  that  he  was  turning 
into  an  unknown  Place  de  something  or  other  in 
some  foreign  town. 

At  one  corner  of  the  square  there  projected  a 
kind  of  angle  of  a  prosperous  but  quiet  hotel,  the 
bulk  of  which  belonged  to  a  street  behind.  In  the 
wall  there  was  one  large  French  window,  probably 
the  window  of  a  large  coffee-room ;  and  outside  this 
window,  almost  literally  overhanging  the  square, 
was  a  formidably  buttressed  balcony,  big  enough  to 
contain  a  dining-table.  In  fact,  it  did  contain  a 
dining-table,  or  more  strictly  a  breakfast-table  ;  and 
round  the  breakfast-table,  glowing  in  the  sunlight 
and  evident  to  the  street,  were  a  group  of  noisy  and 
talkative  men,  all  dressed  in  the  insolence  of  fashion, 
with  white  waistcoats  and  expensive  buttonholes. 
Some  of  their  jokes  could  almost  be  heard  across 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  73 

the  square.  Then  the  grave  Secretary  gave  his  un- 
natural smile,  and  Syme  knew  that  this  boisterous 
breakfast  party  was  the  secret  conclave  of  the 
European  Dynamiters. 

Then,  as  Syme  continued  to  stare  at  them,  he 
saw  something  that  he  had  not  seen  before.  He 
had  not  seen  it  literally  because  it  was  too  large  to 
see.  At  the  nearest  end  of  the  balcony,  blocking 
up  a  great  part  of  the  perspective,  was  the  back  of 
a  great  mountain  of  a  man.  When  Syme  had  seen 
him,  his  first  thought  was  that  the  weight  of  him 
must  break  down  the  balcony  of  stone.  His  vast- 
ness  did  not  lie  only  in  the  fact  that  he  was  ab- 
normally tall  and  quite  incredibly  fat.  This  man 
was  planned  enormously  in  his  original  proportions, 
hke  a  statue  carved  deliberately  as  colossal.  His 
head,  crowned  with  white  hair,  as  seen  from  behind 
looked  bigger  than  a  head  ought  to  be.  The  cars 
that  stood  out  from  it  looked  larger  than  human 
ears.  He  was  enlarged  terribly  to  scale ;  and  this 
sense  of  size  was  so  staggering,  that  when  Syme 
saw  him  all  the  other  figures  seemed  quite  suddenly 
to  dwindle  and  become  dwarfish.  They  were  still 
sitting  there  as  before  with  their  flowers  and  frock- 
coats,  but  now  it  looked  as  if  the  big  man  was  en- 
tertaining five  children  to  tea. 


74         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

As  Syme  and  the  guide  approached  the  side  door 
of  the  hotel,  a  waiter  came  out  smihng  with  every 
tooth  in  his  head. 

"  The  gentlemen  are  up  there,  sare,"  he  said. 
"  They  do  talk  and  they  do  laugh  at  what  they  talk. 
They  do  say  they  will  throw  bombs  at  ze  king." 

And  the  waiter  hurried  away  with  a  napkin  over 
his  arm,-  much  pleased  with  the  singular  frivolity  of 
the  gentlemen  up-stairs. 

The  two  men  mounted  the  stairs  in  silence. 

Syme  had  never  thought  of  asking  whether  the 
monstrous  man  who  almost  filled  and  broke  the  bal- 
cony was  the  great  President  of  whom  the  others 
stood  in  awe.  He  knew  it  was  so,  with  an  unac- 
countable but  instantaneous  certainty.  Syme,  in- 
deed, was  one  of  those  men  who  are  open  to  all  the 
more  nameless  psychological  influences  in  a  degree 
a  little  dangerous  to  mental  health.  Utterly  devoid 
of  fear  in  physical  dangers,  he  was  a  great  deal  too 
sensitive  to  the  smell  of  spiritual  evil.  Twice  al- 
ready that  night  little  unmeaning  things  had  peeped 
out  at  him  almost  pruriently,  and  given  him  a  sense 
of  drawing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  headquarters 
of  hell.  And  this  sense  became  overpowering  as 
he  drew  nearer  to  the  great  President. 

The  form  it  took  was  a  childish  and  yet  hateful 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  75 

fancy.  As  he  walked  across  the  inner  room  towards 
the  balcony,  the  large  face  of  Sunday  grew  larger 
and  larger ;  and  Syme  was  gripped  with  a  fear  that 
when  he  was  quite  close  the  face  would  be  too  big 
to  be  possible,  and  that  he  would  scream  aloud. 
He  remembered  that  as  a  child  he  would  not  look 
at  the  mask  of  Memnon  in  the  British  Museum, 
because  it  was  a  face,  and  so  large. 

By  an  effort  braver  than  that  of  leaping  over  a 
cliff,  he  went  to  an  empty  seat  at  the  breakfast-table 
and  sat  down.  The  men  greeted  him  with  good- 
humoured  raillery  as  if  they  had  always  known  him. 
He  sobered  himself  a  little  by  looking  at  their  con- 
ventional coats  and  solid,  shining  coffee-pot ;  then 
he  looked  again  at  Sunday.  His  face  was  very 
large,  but  it  was  still  possible  to  humanity. 

In  the  presence  of  the  President  the  whole  com- 
pany looked  sufficiently  commonplace ;  nothing 
about  them  caught  the  eye  at  first,  except  that  by 
the  President's  caprice  they  had  been  dressed  up 
with  a  festive  respectability,  which  gave  the  meal 
the  look  of  a  wedding  breakfast.  One  man  indeed 
stood  out  at  even  a  superficial  glance.  He  at  least 
was  the  common  or  garden  Dynamiter.  He  wore, 
indeed,  the  high  white  collar  and  satin  tie  that  were 
the  uniform  of  the  occasion  ;  but  out  of  this  collar 


76         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

there  sprang  a  head  quite  unmanageable  and  quite 
unmistakable,  a  bewildering  bush  of  brown  hair  and 
beard  that  almost  obscured  the  eyes  like  those  of  a 
Skye  terrier.  But  the  eyes  did  look  out  of  the 
tangle,  and  they  were  the  sad  eyes  of  some  Russian 
serf.  The  effect  of  this  figure  was  not  terrible  like 
that  of  the  President,  but  it  had  every  diablerie  that 
can  come  from  the  utterly  grotesque.  If  out  of  that 
stiff  tie  and  collar  there  had  come  abruptly  the  head 
of  a  cat  or  a  dog,  it  could  not  have  been  a  more 
idiotic  contrast. 

The  man's  name,  it  seemed,  was  Gogol ;  he  was  a 
Pole,  and  in  this  circle  of  days  he  was  called  Tues- 
day. His  soul  and  speech  were  incurably  tragic ; 
he  could  not  force  himself  to  play  the  prosperous 
and  frivolous  part  demanded  of  him  by  President 
Sunday.  And,  indeed,  when  Syme  came  in  the 
President,  with  that  daring  disregard  of  public 
suspicion  which  was  his  policy,  was  actually  chaff- 
ing Gogol  upon  his  inabihty  to  assume  conventional 
graces, 

"  Our  friend  Tuesday,"  said  the  President  in  a 
deep  voice  at  once  of  quietude  and  volume,  "  our 
friend  Tuesday  doesn't  seem  to  grasp  the  idea.  He 
dresses  up  like  a  gentleman,  but  he  seems  to  be  too 
great  a  soul  to  behave  like  one.     He  insists  on  the 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  77 

ways  of  the  stage  conspirator.  Now  if  a  gentleman 
goes  about  London  in  a  top  hat  and  a  frock-coat, 
no  one  need  know  that  he  is  an  anarchist.  But  if  a 
gentleman  puts  on  a  top  hat  and  a  frock-coat,  and 
then  goes  about  on  his  hands  and  knees — well,  he 
may  attract  attention.  That's  what  Brother  Gogol 
does.  He  goes  about  on  his  hands  and  knees  with 
such  inexhaustible  diplomacy,  that  by  this  time  he 
finds  it  quite  difficult  to  walk  upright." 

"  I  am  not  good  at  goncealmcnt,"  said  Gogol 
sulkily,  with  a  thick  foreign  accent ;  "  I  am  not 
ashamed  of  the  cause." 

"  Yes  you  are,  my  boy,  and  so  is  the  cause  of 
you,"  said  the  President  good-naturedly.  "  You 
hide  as  much  as  anybody ;  but  you  can't  do  it,  you 
see,  you're  such  an  ass  1  You  try  to  combine  two 
inconsistent  methods.  When  a  householder  finds  a 
man  under  his  bed,  he  will  probably  pause  to  note 
the  circumstance.  But  if  he  finds  a  man  under  his 
bed  in  a  top  hat,  you  will  agree  with  me,  ni}-  dear 
Tuesday,  that  he  is  not  likely  even  to  forget  it. 
Now  when  you  were  found  under  Admiral  Biffin's 
bed " 

"  I  am  not  good  at  deception,"  said  Tuesday 
gloomily,  flushing. 

"  Right,  my  boy,  right,"  said  the  President  with 


78         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

a  ponderous  heartiness,  "  you  aren't  good  at  any- 
thing." 

While  this  stream  of  conversation  continued, 
Syme  was  looking  more  steadily  at  the  men  around 
him.  As  he  did  so,  he  gradually  felt  all  his  sense 
of  something  spiritually  queer  return. 

He  had  thought  at  first  that  they  were  all  of 
common  stature  and  costume,  with  the  evident 
exception  of  the  hairy  Gogol.  But  as  he  looked  at 
the  others,  he  began  to  see  in  each  of  them  exactly 
what  he  had  seen  in  the  man  by  the  river,  a  de- 
moniac detail  somewhere.  That  lopsided  laugh, 
which  would  suddenly  disfigure  the  fine  face  of  his 
original  guide,  was  typical  of  all  these  types.  Each 
man  had  something  about  him,  perceived  perhaps 
at  the  tenth  or  twentieth  glance,  which  was  not 
normal,  and  which  seemed  hardly  human.  The 
only  metaphor  he  could  think  of  was  this,  that  they 
all  looked  as  men  of  fashion  and  presence  would 
look,  with  the  additional  twist  given  in  a  false  and 
curved  mirror. 

Only  the  individual  examples  will  express  this 
half- concealed  eccentricity.  Syme's  original  cice- 
rone bore  the  title  of  Monday  ;  he  was  the  Secretary 
of  the  Council,  and  his  twisted  smile  was  regarded 
with  more  terror  than  anything,  except  the  Presi- 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  79 

dent's  horrible,  happy  laughter,  liut  now  that  Syme 
had  more  space  and  light  to  observe  him,  there 
were  other  touches.  His  fine  face  was  so  emaciated, 
that  Syme  thought  it  must  be  wasted  with  some 
disease ;  yet  somehow  the  very  distress  of  his  dark 
eyes  denied  this.  It  was  no  physical  ill  that 
troubled  him.  His  eyes  were  alive  with  intellectual 
torture,  as  if  pure  thought  was  pain. 

He  was  typical  of  each  of  the  tribe;  each  man  was 
subtly  and  differently  wrong.  Next  to  him  sat 
Tuesday,  the  towzle-headed  Gogol,  a'  man  more 
obviously  mad.  Next  was  Wednesday,  a  certain 
Marquis  de  St.  Eustache,  a  sufficiently  characteristic 
figure.  The  first  few  glances  found  nothing  unusual 
about  him,  except  that  he  was  the  only  man  at  table 
who  wore  the  fashionable  clothes  as  if  they  were 
really  his  own.  He  had  a  black  French  beard  cut 
square  and  a  black  English  frock-coat  cut  even 
squarer.  But  Syme,  sensitive  to  such  things,  felt 
somehow  that  the  man  carried  a  rich  atmosphere 
with  him,  a  rich  atmosphere  that  suffocated.  It 
reminded  one  irrationally  of  drowsy  odours  and  of 
dying  lamps  in  the  darker  poems  of  Byron  and  Poe. 
With  this  went  a  sense  of  his  being  clad,  not  in 
lighter  colours,  but  in  softer  materials;  his  black 
seemed  richer  and  warmer  than  the  black  shades 


8o         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

about  him,  as  if  it  were  compounded  of  profound 
colour.  His  black  coat  looked  as  if  it  were  only 
black  by  being  too  dense  a  purple.  His  black 
beard  looked  as  if  it  were  only  black  by  being  too 
deep  a  blue.  And  in  the  gloom  and  thickness  of 
the  beard  his  dark  red  mouth  showed  sensual  and 
scornful.  Whatever  he  was  he  was  not  a  French- 
man ;  he  might  be  a  Jew ;  he  might  be  something 
deeper  yet  in  the  dark  heart  of  the  East,  In  the 
bright  coloured  Persian  tiles  and  pictures  showing 
tyrants  hunting,  you  may  see  just  those  almond 
eyes,  those  blue-black  beards,  those  cruel,  crimson 
lips. 

Then  came  Syme,  and  next  a  very  old  man.  Pro- 
fessor de  Worms,  who  still  kept  the  chair  of  Friday, 
though  every  day  it  was  expected  that  his  death 
would  leave  it  empty.  Save  for  his  intellect,  he  was 
in  the  last  dissolution  of  senile  decay.  His  face  was 
as  grey  as  his  long  grey  beard,  his  forehead  was 
lifted  and  fixed  finally  in  a  furrow  of  mild  despair. 
In  no  other  case,  not  even  that  of  Gogol,  did  the 
bridegroom  brilliancy  of  the  morning  dress  express 
a  more  painful  contrast.  For  the  red  flower  in  his 
buttonhole  showed  up  against  a  face  that  was 
literally  discoloured  like  lead ;  the  whole  hideous 
effect  was  as  if  some  drunken  dandies  had  put  their 


THE  FEAST  OF  FEAR  8i 

clothes  upon  a  corpse.  When  he  rose  or  sat  down, 
which  was  with  long  labour  and  peril,  something 
worse  was  expressed  than  mere  weakness,  some- 
thing indefinably  connected  with  the  horror  of  the 
whole  scene.  It  did  not  express  decrepitude  merely, 
but  corruption.  Another  hateful  fancy  crossed 
Syme's  quivering  mind.  He  could  not  help  think- 
ing that  whenever  the  man  moved  a  leg  or  arm 
might  fall  off. 

Right  at  the  end  sat  the  man  called  Saturday,  the 
simplest  and  the  most  baffling  of  all.  He  was  a 
short,  square  man  with  a  dark,  square  face  clean- 
shaven, a  medical  practitioner  going  by  the  name 
of  Bull.  He  had  that  combination  of  savoir-faire 
with  a  sort  of  well-groomed  coarseness  which  is  not 
uncommon  in  young  doctors.  He  carried  his  fine 
clothes  with  confidence  rather  than  ease,  and  he 
mostly  wore  a  set  smile.  There  was  nothing  what- 
ever odd  about  him,  except  that  he  wore  a  pair  of 
dark,  almost  opaque  spectacles.  It  may  have  been 
merely  a  crescendo  of  nervous  fancy  that  had  gone 
before,  but  those  black  discs  were  dreadful  to  Syme ; 
they  reminded  him  of  half-remembered  ugly  tales, 
of  some  story  about  pennies  being  put  on  the  eyes 
of  the  dead.  Syme's  eye  always  caught  the  black 
glasses  and  the  blind  grin.       Had  the  dying  Profcs- 


82  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

sor  worn  them,  or  even  the  pale  Secretary,  they 
would  have  been  appropriate.  But  on  the  younger 
and  grosser  man  they  seemed  only  an  enigma. 
They  took  away  the  key  of  the  face.  You  could 
not  tell  what  his  smile  or  his  gravity  meant.  Partly 
from  this,  and  partly  because  he  had  a  vulgar 
virility  wanting  in  most  of  the  others,  it  seemed  to 
Syme  that  he  might  be  the  wickedest  of  all  those 
wicked  men.  Syme  even  had  the  thought  that  his 
eyes  might  be  covered  up  because  they  were  too 
frightful  to  see. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    EXPOSURE 

Such  were  the  six  men  who  had  sworn  to  destroy 
the  world.  Again  and  again  Syme  strove  to  pull 
together  his  common  sense  in  their  presence. 
Sometimes  he  saw  for  an  instant  that  these  notions 
were  subjective,  that  he  was  only  looking  at  ordi- 
nary men,  one  of  whom  was  old,  another  nervous, 
another  short-sighted.  The  sense  of  an  unnatural 
symbolism  always  settled  back  on  him  again.  Each 
figure  seemed  to  be,  somehow,  on  the  borderland  of 
things,  just  as  their  theory  was  on  the  borderland  of 
thought.  He  knew  that  each  one  of  these  men 
stood  at  the  extreme  end,  so  to  speak,  of  some  wild 
road  of  reasoning.  I  le  could  only  fancy,  as  in  some 
old-world  fable,  that  if  a  man  went  westward  to  the 
end  of  the  world  he  would  find  something — say  a 
tree — that  was  more  or  less  than  a  tree,  a  tree 
possessed  by  a  spirit ;  and  that  if  he  went  east  to  the 
end  of  the  world  he  would  find  something  else  that 
was  not  wholly  itself — a  tower,  perhaps,  of  which 
the    very   shape   was    wicked.     So    these    figures 

83 


84         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

seemed  to  stand  up,  violent  and  unaccountable, 
against  an  ultimate  horizon,  visions  from  the  verge. 
The  ends  of  the  earth  were  closing  in. 

Talk  had  been  going  on  steadily  as  he  took  in 
the  scene;  and  not  the  least  of  the  contrasts  of 
that  bewildering  breakfast-table  was  the  contrast 
between  the  easy  and  unobtrusive  tone  of  talk  and 
its  terrible  purport.  They  were  deep  in  the  discus- 
sion of  an  actual  and  immediate  plot.  The  waiter 
down-stairs  had  spoken  quite  correctly  when  he 
said  that  they  were  talking  about  bombs  and  kings. 
Only  three  days  afterwards  the  Czar  was  to  meet 
the  President  of  the  French  Republic  in  Paris,  and 
over  their  bacon  and  eggs  upon  their  sunny  balcony 
these  beaming  gentlemen  had  decided  how  both 
should  die.  Even  the  instrument  was  chosen ;  the 
black-bearded  Marquis,  it  appeared,  was  to  carry 
the  bomb. 

Ordinarily  speaking,  the  proximity  of  this  pos- 
itive and  objective  crime  would  have  sobered  Syme, 
and  cured  him  of  all  his  merely  mystical  tremors. 
He  would  have  thought  of  nothing  but  the  need 
of  saving  at  least  two  human  bodies  from  being 
ripped  in  pieces  with  iron  and  roaring  gas.  But 
the  truth  was  that  by  this  time  he  had  begun  to  it 

feel  a  third  kind  of  fear,  more  piercing  and  practical 


THE  EXPOSURE  85 

than  either  his  moral  revulsion  or  his  social  re- 
sponsibility. Very  simply,  he  had  no  fear  to  spare 
for  the  French  President  or  the  Czar ;  he  had  begun 
to  fear  for  himself.  Most  of  the  talkers  took  little 
heed  of  him,  debating  now  with  their  faces  closer 
together,  and  almost  uniformly  grave,  save  when 
for  an  instant  thd  smile  of  the  Secretary  ran  aslant 
across  his  face  as  the  jagged  lightning  runs  aslant 
across  the  sky.  But  there  was  one  persistent  thing 
which  first  troubled  Syme  and  at  last  terrified  him. 
The  President  was  always  looking  at  him,  steadily, 
and  with  a  great  and  baffling  interest.  The  enor- 
mous man  was  quite  quiet,  but  his  blue  eyes  stood 
out  of  his  head.  And  they  were  always  fixed  on 
Syme. 

Syme  felt  moved  to  spring  up  and  leap  over  the 
balcony.  When  the  President's  eyes  were  on  him 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  made  of  glass.  He  had  hardly 
the  shred  of  a  doubt  that  in  some  silent  and  extra- 
ordinary way  Sunday  had  found  out  that  he  was  a 
spy.  He  looked  over  the  edge  of  the  balcony,  and 
saw  a  policeman  standing  abstractedly  just  beneath, 
staring  at  the  bright  railings  and  the  sunlit  trees. 

Then  there  fell  upon  him  the  great  temptation 
that  was  to  torment  him  for  many  days.  In  the 
presence  of  these  powerful  and  repulsive  men,  who 


86         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

were  the  princes  of  anarchy,  he  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  frail  and  fanciful  figure  of  the  poet 
Gregory,  the  mere  aesthete  of  anarchism.  He 
even  thought  of  him  now  with  an  old  kindness,  as 
if  they  had  played  together  when  children.  But 
he  remembered  that  he  was  still  tied  to  Gregory  by 
a  great  promise.  He  had  promised  never  to  do  the 
very  thing  that  he  now  felt  himself  almost  in  the 
act  of  doing.  He  had  promised  not  to  jump  over 
that  balcony  and  speak  to  that  policeman.  He 
took  his  cold  hand  off  the  cold  stone  balustrade. 
His  soul  swayed  in  a  vertigo  of  moral  indecision. 
He  had  only  to  snap  the  thread  of  a  rash  vow 
made  to  a  villainous  society,  and  all  his  Ufe  could 
be  as  open  and  sunny  as  the  square  beneath  him. 
He  had,  on  the  other  hand,  only  to  keep  his 
antiquated  honour,  and  be  delivered  inch  by  inch 
into  the  power  of  this  great  enemy  of  mankind, 
whose  very  intellect  was  a  torture-chamber.  When- 
ever he  looked  down  into  the  square  he  saw  the 
comfortable  policeman,  a  pillar  of  common-sense 
and  common  order.  Whenever  he  looked  back  at 
the  breakfast-table  he  saw  the  President  still  quietly 
studying  him  with  big,  unbearable  eyes. 

In  all  the  torrent  of  his  thought  there  were  two 
thoughts   that   never   crossed   his  mind.     First,  it 


THE  EXPOSURE  87 

never  occurred  to  him  to  dmibt  that  the  President 
and  his  Council  could  crush  him  if  he  continued  to 
stand  alone.  The  place  might  be  public,  the  project 
might  seem  impossible.  But  Sunday  was  not  the 
man  who  would  carry  himself  thus  easily  without 
having,  somehow  or  somewhere,  set  open  his  iron 
trap.  Either  by  anonymous  poison  or  sudden 
street  accident,  by  hypnotism  or  by  fire  from  hell, 
Sunday  could  certainly  strike  him.  If  he  defied 
the  man  he  was  probably  dead,  either  struck  stiff 
there  in  his  chair  or  long  afterwards  as  by  an 
innocent  ailment.  If  he  called  in  the  police 
promptly,  arrested  every  one,  told  all,  and  set 
against  them  the  whole  energy  of  England,  he 
would  probably  escape ;  certainly  not  otherwise. 
They  were  a  balconyful  of  gentlemen  overlooking 
a  bright  and  busy  square ;  but  he  felt  no  more  safe 
with  them  than  if  they  had  been  a  boatful  of  armed 
pirates  overlooking  an  empty  sea. 

There  was  a  second  thought  that  never  came  to 
him.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  be  spiritually 
won  over  to  the  enemy.  Many  moderns,  inured  to 
a  weak  worship  of  intellect  and  force,  might  have 
wavered  in  their  allegiance  under  this  oppression 
of  a  great  personality.  They  might  have  called 
Sunday  the  super-man.     If  any  such  creature  be 


88         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

conceivable,  he  looked,  indeed,  somewhat  like  it, 
with  his  earth-shaking  abstraction,  as  of  a  stone 
statue  walking.  He  might  have  been  called  some- 
thing above  man,  with  his  large  plans,  which  were 
too  obvious  to  be  detected,  with  his  large  face, 
which  was  too  frank  to  be  understood.  But  this 
was  a  kind  of  modern  meanness  to  which  Syme 
could  not  sink  even  in  his  extreme  morbidity. 
Like  any  man,  he  was  coward  enough  to  fear  great 
force ;  but  he  was  not  quite  coward  enough  to  ad- 
mire it. 

The  men  were  eating  as  they  talked,  and  even  in 
this  they  were  typical.  Dr.  Bull  and  the  Marquis 
ate  casually  and  conventionally  of  the  best  things 
on  the  table — cold  pheasant  or  Strasbourg  pie. 
But  the  Secretary  was  a  vegetarian,  and  he  spoke 
earnestly  of  the  projected  murder  over  half  a  raw 
tomato  and  three  quarters  of  a  glass  of  tepid  water. 
The  old  Professor  had  such  slops  as  suggested  a 
sickening  second  childhood.  And  even  in  this 
President  Sunday  preserved  his  curious  predomi- 
nance of  mere  mass.  For  he  ate  like  twenty  men ; 
he  ate  incredibly,  with  a  frightful  freshness  of 
appetite,  so  that  it  was  like  watching  a  sausage 
factory.  Yet  continually,  when  he  had  swallowed 
a  dozen  crumpets  or  drunk  a  quart  of  coffee,  he 


THK  EXPOSURE  89 

would  be  found  with  his  great  head  on  one  side 
staring  at  Symc. 

"  I  have  often  wondered,"  said  the  MarquiSj 
taking  a  great  bite  out  of  a  shoe  of  bread  and  jam, 
"  whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  for  me  to  do  it  with 
a  knife.  Most  of  the  best  things  have  been  brought 
offwith  a  knife.  And  it  would  be  a  new  emotion  to  get 
a  knife  into  a  French  President  and  wriggle  it  round." 

•'  You  are  wrong,"  said  the  Secretary,  drawing 
his  black  brows  together.  "  The  knife  was  merely 
the  expression  of  the  old  personal  quarrel  with  a 
personal  tyrant.  Dynamite  is  not  only  our  best 
tool,  but  our  best  symbol.  It  is  as  perfect  a  symbol 
of  us  as  is  incense  of  the  prayers  of  the  Christians. 
It  expands ;  it  only  destroys  because  it  broadens ; 
even  so,  thought  only  destroys  because  it  broadens. 
A  man's  brain  is  a  bomb,"  he  cried  out,  loosening 
suddenly  his  strange  passion  and  striking  his  own 
skull  with  violence.  "  My  brain  feels  like  a  bomb, 
night  and  day.  It  must  expand  !  It  must  expand  ! 
A  man's  brain  must  expand,  if  it  breaks  up  the 
universe." 

"  I  don't  want  the  universe  broken  up  just  yet," 
drawled  the  Marquis.  "  I  want  to  do  a  lot  of 
beastly  things  before  I  die.  I  thought  of  one  yes- 
terday in  bed." 


90         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

**  No,  if  the  only  end  of  the  thing  is  nothing/' 
said  Dr.  Bull  with  his  sphinx-like  smile,  "  it  hardly 
seems  worth  doing." 

The  old  Professor  was  staring  at  the  ceiUng  with 
dull  eyes. 

"  Every  man  knows  in  his  heart,"  he  said,  "  that 
nothing  is  worth  doing." 

There  was  a  singular  silence,  and  then  the  Secre- 
tary said  — 

"  We  are  wandering,  however,  from  the  point. 
The  only  question  is  how  Wednesday  is  to  strike 
the  blow.  I  take  it  we  should  all  agree  with  the 
original  notion  of  a  bomb.  As  to  the  actual 
arrangements,  I  should  suggest  that  to-morrow 
morning  he  should  go  first  of  all  to " 

The  speech  was  broken  off  short  under  a  vast 
shadow.  President  Sunday  had  risen  to  his  feet, 
seeming  to  fill  the  sky  above  them. 

"  Before  we  discuss  that,"  he  said  in  a  small, 
quiet  voice,  "  let  us  go  into  a  private  room,  I  have 
something  very  particular  to  say." 

Syme  stood  up  before  any  of  the  others.  The 
instant  of  choice  had  come  at  last,  the  pistol  was 
at  his  head.  On  the  pavement  below  he  could  hear 
the  policeman  idly  stir  and  stamp,  for  the  morning, 
though  bright,  was  cold. 


THE  EXPOSURE  91 

A  barrel-organ  in  the  street  suddenly  sprang  with 
a  jerk  into  a  jovial  tune.  Syme  stood  up  taut,  as 
if  it  had  been  a  bugle  before  the  battle.  He  found 
himself  filled  with  a  supernatural  courage  that  came 
from  nowhere.  That  jingling  music  seemed  full  of 
the  vivacity,  the  vulgarity,  and  the  irrational  valour 
of  the  poor,  who  in  all  those  unclean  streets  were 
all  clinging  to  the  decencies  and  the  charities  of 
Christendom.  His  youthful  prank  of  being  a  police- 
man had  faded  from  his  mind ;  he  did  not  think  of 
himself  as  the  representative  of  the  corps  of  gentle- 
men turned  into  fancy  constables,  or  of  the  old 
eccentric  who  lived  in  the  dark  room.  But  he  did 
feel  himself  as  the  ambassador  of  all  these  common 
and  kindly  people  in  the  street,  who  every  day 
marched  into  battle  to  the  music  of  the  barrel-organ. 
And  this  high  pride  in  being  human  had  lifted  him 
unaccountably  to  an  infinite  height  above  the  mon- 
strous men  around  him.  For  an  instant,  at  least, 
he  looked  down  upon  all  their  sprawling  eccen- 
tricities from  the  starry  pinnacle  of  the  common- 
place. He  felt  towards  them  all  that  unconscious 
and  elementary  superiority  that  a  brave  man  feels 
over  powerful  beasts  or  a  wise  man  over  powerful 
errors.  I  le  knew  that  he  had  neither  the  intel- 
lectual nor  the  physical  strength  of  President  Sun- 


92 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


day;  but  in  that  moment  he  minded  it  no  more 
than  the  fact  that  he  had  not  the  muscles  of  a  tiger 
or  a  horn  on  his  nose  Hke  a  rhinoceros.  All  was 
swallowed  up  in  an  ultimate  certainty  that  the 
President  was  wrong  and  that  the  barrel-organ  was 
right.  There  clanged  in  his  mind  that  unanswer- 
able and  terrible  truism  in  the  song  of  Roland — 

"  Paiens  ont  tort  et  Chretiens  ont  droit," 

which  in  the  old  nasal  French  has  the  clang  and 
groan  of  great  iron.  This  liberation  of  his  spirit 
from  the  load  of  his  weakness  went  with  a  quite 
clear  decision  to  embrace  death.  If  the  people  of 
the  barrel-organ  could  keep  their  old-world  obliga- 
tions, so  could  he.  This  very  pride  in  keeping  his 
word  was  that  he  was  keeping  it  to  miscreants.  It 
was  his  last  triumph  over  these  lunatics  to  go  down 
into  their  dark  room  and  die  for  something  that 
they  could  not  even  understand.  The  barrel-organ 
seemed  to  give  the  marching  tune  with  the  energy 
and  the  mingled  noises  of  a  whole  orchestra ;  and 
he  could  hear  deep  and  rolling,  under  all  the  trum- 
pets of  the  pride  of  life,  the  drums  of  the  pride  of  death. 
The  conspirators  were  already  filing  through  the 
open  window  and  into  the  rooms  behind.  Syme 
went  last,  outwardly  calm,  but  with  all    his  brain 


THE  EXPOSURE  93 

and  body  throbbing  with  romantic  rhythm.  The 
President  led  them  down  an  irregular  side  stair,  such 
as  might  be  used  by  servants,  and  into  a  dim,  cold, 
empty  room,  with  a  table  and  benches,  like  an 
abandoned  board-room.  When  they  were  all  in,  he 
closed  and  locked  the  door. 

The  first  to  speak  was  Gogol,  the  irreconcilable, 
who  seemed  bursting  with  inarticulate  grievance. 

"  Zso  !  Zso!"  he  cried/ with  an  obscure  excite- 
ment, his  heavy  Polish  accent  becoming  almost  im- 
penetrable. "  You  zay  you  nod  'ide.  You  zay  you 
show  himselves.  It  is  all  nuzzinks.  Ven  you  vant 
talk  importance  you  run  yourselves  in  a  dark  box  !  " 

The  President  seemed  to  take  the  foreigner's  inco- 
herent satire  with  entire  good  humour. 

"  You  can't  get  hold  of  it  yet,  Gogol,"  he  said  in 
a  fatherly  way.  "  When  once  they  have  heard  us 
talking  nonsense  on  that  balcony  they  will  not  care 
where  we  go  afterwards.  If  we  had  come  here  first, 
we  should  have  had  the  whole  staff  at  the  keyhole. 
You  don't  seem  to  know  anything  about  mankind." 

"  I  die  for  zcm,"  cried  the  Pole  in  thick  excite- 
ment, "  and  I  slay  zare  oppressors.  I  care  not  for 
these  games  of  gonzealment.  I  would  zmite  ze 
tyrant  in  ze  open  square." 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  President,  nodding  kindly 


94         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

as  he  seated  himself  at  the  top  of  a  long  table. 
"  You  die  for  mankind  first,  and  then  you  get  up 
and  smite  their  oppressors.  So  that's  all  right. 
And  now  may  I  ask  you  to  control  your  beautiful 
sentiments,  and  sit  down  with  the  other  gentlemen 
at  this  table.  For  the  first  time  this  morning  some- 
thing intelligent  is  going  to  be  said," 

Syme,  with  the  perturbed  promptitude  he  had 
shown  since  the  original  summons,  sat  down  first. 
Gogol  sat  down  last,  grumbling  in  his  brown  beard 
about  gombromise.  No  one  except  Syme  seemed 
to  have  any  notion  of  the  blow  that  was  about  to 
fall.  As  for  him,  he  had  merely  the  feeling  of  a 
man  mounting  the  scaffold  with  the  intention,  at 
any  rate,  of  making  a  good  speech. 

"  Comrades,"  said  the  President,  suddenly  rising, 
"  we  have  spun  out  this  farce  long  enough.  I  have 
called  you  down  here  to  tell  you  something  so  sim- 
ple and  shocking  that  even  the  waiters  up-stairs 
(long  inured  to  our  levities)  might  hear  some  new 
seriousness  in  my  voice.  Comrades,  we  were  dis- 
cussing plans  and  naming  places.  I  propose,  before 
saying  anything  else,  that  those  plans  and  places 
should  not  be  voted  by  this  meeting,  but  should  be 
left  wholly  in  the  control  of  some  one  reliable  mem- 
ber.    I  suggest  Comrade  Saturday,  Dr.  Bull," 


THE  EXPOSURE  95 

They  all  stared  at  him ;  then  they  all  started  in  their 
seats,  for  the  next  words, though  not  loud, had  a  living 
and  sensational  emphasis.     Sunday  struck  the  table, 

•'  Not  one  word  more  about  the  plans  and  places 
must  be  said  at  this  meeting.  Not  one  tiny  detail 
more  about  what  we  mean  to  do  must  be  mentioned 
in  this  company." 

Sunday  had  spent  his  life  in  astonishing  his  fol- 
lowers ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  never  really 
astonished  them  until  now.  They  all  moved  fever- 
ishly in  their  seats,  except  Syme.  He  sat  stiff  in 
his,  with  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and  on  the  handle 
of  his  loaded  revolver.  When  the  attack  on  him 
came  he  would  sell  his  life  dear.  He  would  find 
out  at  least  if  the  President  was  mortal. 

Sunday  went  on  smoothly  — 

"  You  will  probably  understand  that  there  is  only 
one  possible  motive  for  forbidding  free  speech  at 
this  festival  of  freedom.  Strangers  overhearing  us 
matters  nothing.  They  assume  that  we  are  joking. 
But  what  would  matter,  even  unto  death,  is  this, 
tliat  there  should  be  one  actually  among  us  who  is 
not  of  us,  who  knows  our  grave  purpose,  but  does 
not  share  it,  who " 

The  Secretary  screamed  out  suddenly  like  a 
woman. 


96  THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  It  can't  be  !  "  he  cried,  leaping,  "  There 
can't " 

The  President  flapped  his  large  flat  hand  on  the 
table  like  the  fin  of  some  huge  fish. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  there  is  a  spy  in  this 
room.  There  is  a  traitor  at  this  table.  I  will  waste 
no  more  words.     His  name " 

Syme  half  rose  from  his  seat,  his  finger  firm  on 
the  trigger. 

"  His  name  is  Gogol,"  said  the  President.  "  He  is 
that  hairy  humbug  over  there  who  pretends  to  be  a 
Pole." 

Gogol  sprang  to  his  feet,  a  pistol  in  each  hand. 
With  the  same  flash  three  men  sprang  at  his  throat. 
Even  the  Professor  made  an  effort  to  rise.  But 
Syme  saw  little  of  the  scene,  for  he  was  blinded 
with  a  beneficent  darkness  ;  he  had  sunk  down  into 
his  seat  shuddering,  in  a  palsy  of  passionate  relief. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  UNACCOUNTABLE  CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DE 
WORMS 

"  Sit  down  !  "  said  Sunday  in  a  voice  that  he  used 
once  or  twice  in  his  life,  a  voice  that  made  men 
drop  drawn  swords. 

The  three  who  had  risen  fell  away  from  Gogol, 
and  that  equivocal  person  himself  resumed  his 
seat. 

"  Well,  my  man,"  said  the  President  briskly,  ad- 
dressing him  as  one  addresses  a  total  stranger,"  will 
you  oblige  me  by  putting  your  hand  in  your  upper 
waistcoat  pocket  and  showing  nic  what  you  have 
there  ?  " 

The  alleged  Pole  was  a  little  pale  under  his  tangle 
of  dark  hair,  but  he  put  two  fingers  into  the  pocket 
with  apparent  coolness  and  pulled  out  a  blue  strip 
of  card.  When  Syme  saw  it  lying  on  the  table,  he 
woke  up  again  to  the  world  outside  him.  I^'or 
although  the  card  lay  at  tlic  other  extreme  of  the 
table,  and  he  could  read  nothing  of  the  inscription 
on  it,  it  bore  a  startling  resemblance  to  the  blue 
card   in  his  own   pocket,  the  card  which  had  been 

97 


98         THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

given  to  him  when  he  joined  the  anti-anarchist  con- 
stabulary. 

"  Pathetic  Slav,"  said  the  President,  "  tragic  child 
of  Poland,  are  you  prepared  in  the  presence  of  that 
card  to  deny  that  you  are  in  this  company — shall 
we  say  de  trop  f  " 

•'  Right  oh  ! "  said  the  late  Gogol.  It  made  every 
one  jump  to  hear  a  clear,  commercial  and  somewhat 
cockney  voice  coming  out  of  that  forest  of  foreign 
hair.  It  was  irrational,  as  if  a  Chinaman  had  sud- 
denly spoken  with  a  Scotch  accent. 

"  I  gather  that  you  fully  understand  your  posi- 
tion," said  Sunday. 

"  You  bet,"  answered  the  Pole.  "  I  see  it's  a  fair 
cop.  All  I  say  is,  I  don't  believe  any  Pole  could 
have  imitated  my  accent  like  I  did  his." 

"  I  concede  the  point,"  said  Sunday.  "  I  beheve 
your  own  accent  to  be  inimitable,  though  I  shall 
practice  it  in  my  bath.  Do  you  mind  leaving  your 
beard  with  your  card  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit,"  answered  Gogol ;  and  with  one  finger 
he  ripped  off  the  whole  of  his  shaggy  head-cover- 
ing, emerging  with  thin  red  hair  and  a  pale,  pert 
face.     "  It  was  hot,"  he  added. 

"  I  will  do  you  the  justice  to  say,"  said  Sunday, 
not  without  a  sort  of  brutal  admiration,  "  that  you 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DE  WORMS      99 

seem  to  have  kept  pretty  cool  under  it.  Now  listen 
to  me.  I  like  you.  The  consequence  is  that  it 
would  annoy  me  for  just  about  two  and  a  half  min- 
utes if  I  heard  that  you  had  died  in  torments. 
Well,  if  you  ever  tell  the  poHce  or  any  human  soul 
about  us,  I  shall  have  that  two  and  a  half  minutes 
of  discomfort.  On  your  discomfort  I  will  not  dwell. 
Good-day.     Mind  the  step." 

The  red-haired  detective  who  had  masqueraded 
as  Gogol  rose  to  his  feet  without  a  word,  and  walked 
out  of  the  room  with  an  air  of  perfect  nonchalance. 
Yet  the  astonished  Syme  was  able  to  realise  that 
this  ease  was  suddenly  assumed ;  for  there  was  a 
slight  stumble  outside  the  door,  which  showed  that 
the  departing  detective  had  not  minded  the  step. 

"  Time  is  flying,"  said  the  President  in  his  gayest 
manner,  after  glancing  at  his  watch,  which  like 
everything  about  him  seemed  bigger  tlian  it  ought 
to  be.  "  I  must  get  off  at  once  ;  I  have  to  take  the 
chair  at  a  Humanitarian  meeting." 

The  Secretary  turned  to  him  with  working  eye- 
brows. 

"  Would  it  not  be  better,"  he  said  a  little  sharply, 
"  to  discuss  further  the  details  of  our  project,  now 
that  the  spy  has  left  us  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  said  the  President  with  a  yawn 


loo        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

like  an  unobtrusive  earthquake.  "  Leave  it  as  it  is. 
Let  Saturday  settle  it.  I  must  be  off.  Breakfast 
here  next  Sunday." 

But  the  late  loud  scenes  had  whipped  up  the 
almost  naked  nerves  of  the  Secretary,  He  was  one 
of  those  men  who  are  conscientious  even  in  crime. 

"  I  must  protest,  President,  that  the  thing  is  ir- 
regular," he  said.  **  It  is  a  fundamental  rule  of  our 
society  that  all  plans  shall  be  debated  in  full  council. 
Of  course,  I  fully  appreciate  your  forethought  when 
in  the  actual  presence  of  a  traitor " 

"  Secretary,"  said  the  President  seriously,  "  if 
you'd  take  your  head  home  and  boil  it  for  a  turnip 
it  might  be  useful.     I  can't  say.     But  it  might." 

The  Secretary  reared  back  in  a  kind  of  equine 
anger. 

"  I  really  fail  to  understand "  he  began  in 

high  offence. 

•'  That's  it,  that's  it,"  said  the  President,  nodding 
a  great  many  times.  "  That's  where  you  fail  right 
enough.  You  fail  to  understand.  Why,  you  danc- 
ing donkey,"  he  roared,  rising,  "  you  didn't  want  to 
be  overheard  by  a  spy,  didn't  you  ?  How  do  you 
know  you  aren't  overheard  now  ?  " 

And  with  these  words  he  shouldered  his  way  out 
of  the  room,  shaking  with  incomprehensible  scorn. 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DE  WORMS     loi 

Four  of  the  men  left  behind  gaped  after  him 
without  any  apparent  glimmering  of  his  meaning. 
Syme  alone  had  even  a  glimmering,  and  such  as  it 
was  it  froze  him  to  the  bone.  If  the  last  words  of 
the  President  meant  anything,  they  meant  that  he 
had  not  after  all  passed  unsuspected.  They  meant 
that  while  Sunday  could  not  denounce  him  like 
Gogol,  he  still  could  not  trust  him  like  the  others. 

The  other  four  got  to  their  feet  grumbling  more 
or  less,  and  betook  themselves  elsewhere  to  find 
lunch,  for  it  was  already  well  past  midday.  The 
Professor  went  last,  very  slowly  and  painfully. 
Syme  sat  long  after  the  rest  had  gone,  revolving  his 
strange  position.  He  had  escaped  a  thunderbolt, 
but  he  was  still  under  a  cloud.  At  last  he  rose  and 
made  his  way  out  of  the  hotel  into  Leicester  Square. 
The  bright,  cold  day  had  grown  increasingly  colder, 
and  when  he  came  out  into  the  street  he  was  sur- 
prised by  a  few  flakes  of  snow.  While  he  still 
carried  the  sword-stick  and  the  rest  of  Gregory's 
portable  luggage,  he  had  thrown  the  cloak  down 
and  left  it  somewhere,  perhaps  on  the  steam-tug, 
perhaps  on  the  balcony.  Hoping,  therefore,  tliat 
the  snow-shower  might  be  slight,  he  stepped  back 
out  of  the  street  for  a  moment  and  stood  up  under 
the  doorway   of  a  small  and  greasy  hair-drcsscr's 


I02        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

shop,  the  front  window  of  which  was  empty,  except 
for  a  sickly  wax  lady  in  evening  dress. 
■  Snow,  however,  began  to  thicken  and  fall  fast ; 
and  Syme,  having  found  one  glance  at  the  wax 
lady  quite  sufficient  to  depress  his  spirits,  stared  out 
instead  into  the  white  and  empty  street.  He  was 
considerably  astonished  to  see,  standing  quite  still 
outside  the  shop  and  staring  into  the  window,  a 
man.  His  top  hat  was  loaded  with  snow  like  the 
hat  of  Father  Christmas,  the  white  drift  was  rising 
round  his  boots  and  ankles  ;  but  it  seemed  as  if 
nothing  could  tear  him  away  from  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  colourless  wax  doll  in  dirty  evening 
dress.  That  any  human  being  should  stand  in  such 
weather  looking  into  such  a  shop  was  a  matter  of 
sufficient  wonder  to  Syme ;  but  his  idle  wonder 
turned  suddenly  into  a  personal  shock ;  for  he 
realised  that  the  man  standing  there  was  the  paralytic 
old  Professor  de  Worms.  It  scarcely  seemed  the 
place  for  a  person  of  his  years  and  infirmities. 

Syme  was  ready  to  believe  anything  about  the 
perversions  of  this  dehumanised  brotherhood  ;  but 
even  he  could  not  believe  that  the  Professor  had 
fallen  in  love  with  that  particular  wax  lady.  He 
could  only  suppose  that  the  man's  malady  (what- 
ever   it   was)   involved    some    momentary    fits    of 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DF  WORMS     103 

rigidity  or  trance.  lie  was  nut  inclined,  however, 
to  feel  in  tliis  case  any  very  compassionate  concern. 
On  the  contrary,  he  rather  congratulated  himself 
that  the  Professor's  stroke  and  his  elaborate  and 
limping  walk  would  make  it  easy  to  escape  from 
him  and  leave  him  miles  behind.  For  Syme  thirsted 
first  and  last  to  get  clear  of  the  whole  poisonous 
atmosphere,  if  only  for  an  hour.  Then  he  could 
collect  his  thoughts,  formulate  his  poUcy,  and  decide 
finally  whether  he  should  or  should  not  keep  faith 
with  Gregory. 

He  strolled  away  through  the  dancing  snow, 
turned  up  two  or  three  streets,  down  through  two 
or  three  others,  and  entered  a  small  Soho  restaurant 
for  lunch.  He  partook  reflectively  of  four  small  and 
quaint  courses,  drank  half  a  bottle  of  red  wine,  and 
ended  up  over  black  coflee  and  a  black  cigar,  still 
thinking.  He  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  upper  room 
of  the  restaurant,  which  was  full  of  the  chink  of 
knives  and  the  chatter  of  foreigners.  He  remem- 
bered that  in  old  days  he  had  imagined  that  all 
these  harmless  and  kindly  aliens  were  anarchists. 
He  shuddered,  remembering  the  real  thing.  IJut 
even  the  shudder  had  the  delightful  shame  of 
escape.  The  wine,  the  common  food,  the  familiar 
place,  the  faces  of  natural  and  talkative  men,  made 


104        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

him  almost  feel  as  if  the  Council  of  the  Seven  Days 
had  been  a  bad  dream  ;  and  although  he  knew  it 
was  nevertheless  an  objective  reality,  it  was  at  least 
a  distant  one.  Tall  houses  and  populous  streets  lay 
between  him  and  his  last  sight  of  the  shameful 
seven ;  he  was  free  in  free  London,  and  drinking 
wine  among  the  free.  With  a  somewhat  easier 
action,  he  took  his  hat  and  stick  and  strolled  down 
the  stair  into  the  shop  below. 

When  he  entered  that  lower  room  he  stood 
stricken  and  rooted  to  the  spot.  At  a  small  table, 
close  up  to  the  blank  window  and  the  white  street 
of  snow,  sat  the  old  anarchist  Professor  over  a  glass 
of  milk,  with  his  lifted  livid  face  and  pendent  eye- 
lids. For  an  instant  Syme  stood  as  rigid  as  the 
stick  he  leant  upon.  Then  with  a  gesture  as  of 
blind  hurry,  he  brushed  past  the  Professor,  dashing 
open  the  door  and  slamming  it  behind  him,  and 
stood  outside  in  the  snow. 

"  Can  that  old  corpse  be  following  me  ? "  he 
asked  himself,  biting  his  yellow  moustache.  "  I 
stopped  too  long  up  in  that  room,  so  that  even 
such  leaden  feet  could  catch  me  up.  One  comfort 
is,  with  a  little  brisk  walking  I  can  put  a  man  like 
that  as  far  away  as  Timbuctoo.  Or  am  I  too  fanci- 
ful ?    Was  he  really  following  me  ?     Surely  Sunday 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DE  WORMS     105 

would  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  send  a  lame 
man  ?  " 

He  set  off  at  a  smart  pace,  twisting  and  whirling 
his  stick,  in  the  direction  of  Covent  Garden.  As 
he  crossed  the  great  market  the  snow  increased, 
growing  bhnding  and  bewildering  as  the  afternoon 
began  to  darken.  The  snowflakes  tormented  him 
like  a  swarm  of  silver  bees.  Getting  into  his  eyes 
and  beard,  they  added  their  unremitting  futility 
to  his  already  irritated  nerves  ;  and  by  the  time 
that  he  had  come  at  a  swinging  pace  to  the  begin- 
ning of  Fleet  Street,  he  lost  patience,  and  finding  a 
Sunday  tea-shop,  turned  into  it  to  take  shelter.  He 
ordered  another  cup  of  black  coffee  as  an  excuse. 
Scarcely  had  he  done  so,  when  Professor  de  Worms 
hobbled  heavily  into  the  shop,  sat  down  with  diffi- 
culty and  ordered  a  glass  of  milk. 

Syme's  walking-stick  had  fallen  from  his  hand 
with  a  great  clang,  which  confessed  the  concealed 
steel.  But  the  Professor  did  not  look  round. 
Syme,  who  was  commonly  a  cool  character,  was 
hterally  gaping  as  a  rustic  gapes  at  a  conjuring 
trick.  He  had  seen  no  cab  following ;  •  he  had 
heard  no  wheels  outside  the  shop  ;  to  all  mortal 
appearances  the  man  had  come  on  foot.  But  the 
old  man  could  only  walk  like  a  snail,  and  Syme 


io6        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

had  walked  like  the  wind.  He  started  up  and 
snatched  his  stick,  half  crazy  with  the  contradiction 
in  mere  arithmetic,  and  swung  out  of  the  swinging 
doors,  leaving  his  coffee  untasted.  An  omnibus 
going  to  the  Bank  went  rattling  by  with  an  unusual 
rapidity.  He  had  a  violent  run  of  a  hundred  yards 
to  reach  it ;  but  he  managed  to  spring,  swaying 
upon  the  splash-board,  and  pausing  for  an  instant 
to  pant,  he  climbed  on  to  the  top.  When  he  had 
been  seated  for  about  half  a  minute,  he  heard  be- 
hind him  a  sort  of  heavy  and  asthmatic  breathing. 

Turning  sharply,  he  saw  rising  gradually  higher 
and  higher  up  the  omnibus  steps  a  top  hat  soiled 
and  dripping  with  snow,  and  under  the  shadow  of 
its  brim  the  short-sighted  face  and  shaky  shoulders 
of  Professor  de  Worms.  He  let  himself  into  a  seat 
with  characteristic  care,  and  wrapped  himself  up  to 
the  chin  in  the  mackintosh  rug. 

Every  movement  of  the  old  man's  tottering 
figure  and  vague  hands,  every  uncertain  gesture 
and  panic-stricken  pause,  seemed  to  put  it  beyond 
question  that  he  was  helpless,  that  he  was  in  the 
last  imbecility  of  the  body.  He  moved  by  inches, 
he  let  himself  down  with  little  gasps  of  caution. 
And  yet,  unless  the  philosophical  entities  called 
time  and  space  have  no  vestige  even  of  a  practical 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DK  WORMS     107 

existence,  it  appeared  quite  unquestionable  that  he 
had  run  after  the  omnibus. 

Syme  sprang  erect  upon  the  rocking  car,  and 
after  staring  wildly  at  the  wintry  sky,  that  grew 
gloomier  every  moment,  he  ran  down  the  steps, 
lie  had  repressed  an  elemental  impulse  to  leap  over 
the  side. 

Too  bewildered  to  look  back  or  to  reason,  he 
rushed  into  one  of  the  little  courts  at  the  side  of 
Fleet  Street  as  a  rabbit  rushes  into  a  hole.  He  had 
a  vague  idea,  if  this  incomprehensible  old  Jack-in- 
thc  box  was  really  pursuing  him,  that  in  that  laby- 
rinth of  little  streets  he  could  soon  throw  him  off 
the  scent.  He  dived  in  and  out  of  those  crooked 
lanes,  which  were  more  like  cracks  than  thorough- 
fares ;  and  by  the  time  that  he  had  completed  about 
twenty  alternate  angles  and  described  an  unthink- 
able polygon,  he  paused  to  listen  for  any  sound  of 
pursuit.  There  was  none;  there  could  not  in  any 
case  have  been  much,  for  the  little  streets  were 
thick  with  the  soundless  snow.  Somewhere  behind 
Red  Lion  Court,  however,  he  noticed  a  place  where 
some  energetic  citi/.en  had  cleared  away  the  snow 
for  a  space  of  about  twent}-  )-ards,  leaving  the  wet, 
glistening  cobblestones.  He  thought  little  of  this 
as  he    passed    it,   only  plunging  into    yet   another 


io8        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

arm  of  the  maze.  But  when  a  few  hundred  yards 
farther  on  he  stood  still  again  to  listen,  his  heart 
stood  still  also,  for  he  heard  from  that  space  of 
rugged  stones  the  clinking  crutch  and  labouring 
feet  of  the  infernal  cripple. 

The  sky  above  was  loaded  with  the  clouds  of 
snow,  leaving  London  in  a  darkness  and  oppression 
premature  for  that  hour  of  the  evening.  On  each 
side  of  Syme  the  walls  of  the  alley  were  blind  and 
featureless  ;  there  was  no  little  window  or  any  kind 
of  eye.  He  felt  a  new  impulse  to  break  out  of  this 
hive  of  houses,  and  to  get  once  more  into  the  open 
and  lamp-lit  street.  Yet  he  rambled  and  dodged 
for  a  long  time  before  he  struck  the  main  thorough- 
fare. When  he  did  so,  he  struck  it  much  farther 
up  than  he  had  fancied.  He  came  out  into  what 
seemed  the  vast  and  void  of  Ludgate  Circus,  and 
saw  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  sitting  in  the  sky. 

At  first  he  was  startled  to  find  these  great  roads 
so  empty,  as  if  a  pestilence  had  swept  through  the 
city.  Then  he  told  himself  that  some  degree  of 
emptiness  was  natural ;  first  because  the  snow-storm 
was  even  dangerously  deep,  and  secondly  because 
it  was  Sunday.  And  at  the  very  word  Sunday  he 
bit  his  lip  ;  the  word  was  henceforth  for  him  like 
some  indecent  pun.     Under  the  white  fog  of  snow 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DK  WORMS     109 

high  up  in  the  heaven  the  whole  atmosphere  of  the 
city  was  turned  to  a  very  queer  kind  of  green  twi- 
hght,  as  of  men  under  the  sea.  The  scaled  and 
sullen  sunset  behind  the  dark  dome  of  St.  Paul's 
had  in  it  smoky  and  sinister  colours — colours  of 
sickly  green,  dead  red  or  decaying  bronze,  that 
were  just  bright  enough  to  emphasise  the  solid 
whiteness  of  the  snow.  Hut  right  up  against  these 
dreary  colours  rose  the  black  bulk  of  the  cathedral; 
and  upon  the  top  of  the  cathedral  was  a  random 
splash  and  great  stain  of  snow,  still  clinging  as  to 
an  Alpine  peak.  It  had  fallen  accidentally,  but 
just  so  fallen  as  to  half  drape  the  dome  from  its 
very  topmost  point,  and  to  pick  out  in  perfect 
silver  the  great  orb  and  the  cross.  When  Syme 
saw  it  he  suddenly  straightened  himself,  and  made 
with  his  sword-stick  an  involuntarj'  salute. 

He  knew  that  that  evil  figure,  his  shadow,  was 
creeping  quickly  or  slowly  behind  him,  and  he  did 
not  care.  It  seemed  a  symbol  of  human  faith  and 
valour  that  while  the  skies  were  darkening  that 
high  place  of  the  earth  was  bright.  The  devils 
might  have  captured  heaven,  but  they  had  not  yet 
captured  the  cross.  He  had  a  new  impulse  to  tear 
out  the  secret  of  this  dancing,  jumping  and  pursu- 
ing paralytic  ;  and   at  the  entrance  of  the  court  as 


no        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

it  opened  upon  the  Circus  he  turned,  stick  in  hand, 
to  face  his  pursuer. 

Professor  de  Worms  came  slowly  round  the 
corner  of  the  irregular  alley  behind  him,  his  un- 
natural form  outUned  against  a  lonely  gas-lamp, 
irresistibly  recalling  that  very  imaginative  figure  in 
the  nursery  rhymes,  "  the  crooked  man  who  went 
a  crooked  mile."  He  really  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  twisted  out  of  shape  by  the  tortuous  streets 
he  had  been  threading.  He  came  nearer  and 
nearer,  the  lamplight  shining  on  his  lifted  spec- 
tacles, his  lifted,  patient  face.  Syme  waited  for  him 
as  St.  George  waited  for  the  dragon,  as  a  man  waits 
for  a  final  explanation  or  for  death.  And  the  old 
Professor  came  right  up  to  him  and  passed  him  like 
a  total  stranger,  without  even  a  blink  of  his  mourn- 
ful eyelids. 

There  was  something  in  this  silent  and  unex- 
pected innocence  that  left  Syme  in  a  final  fury. 
The  man's  colourless  face  and  manner  seemed  to 
assert  that  the  whole  following  had  been  an  acci- 
dent. Syme  was  galvanised  with  an  energy  that 
was  something  between  bitterness  and  a  burst  of 
boyish  derision.  He  made  a  wild  gesture  as  if  to 
knock  the  old  man's  hat  off,  called  out  something 
like  "  Catch  me  if  you  can,"  and  went  racing  away 


CONDUCT  OF  PROFESSOR  DE  WORMS     in 

across  the  white,  open  Circus.  Concealment  was 
impossible  now  ;  and  looking  back  over  his  shoulder, 
he  could  see  the  black  figure  of  the  old  gentleman 
coming  after  him  with  long,  swinging  strides  like  a 
man  winning  a  mile  race.  But  the  head  upon  that 
bounding  body  was  still  pale,  grave  and  pro- 
fessional, like  the  head  of  a  lecturer  upon  the  body 
of  a  harlequin. 

This  outrageous  chase  sped  across  Ludgate  Circus, 
up  Ludgate  Hill,  round  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  along 
Cheapside,  Syme  remembering  all  the  nightmares 
he  had  ever  known.  Then  Syme  broke  away  to- 
wards the  river,  and  ended  almost  down  by  the 
docks.  He  saw  the  yellow  panes  of  a  low,  lighted 
pubhc-house,  flung  himself  into  it  and  ordered  beer. 
It  was  a  foul  tavern,  sprinkled  with  foreign  sailors, 
a  place  where  opium  might  be  smoked  or  knives 
drawn. 

A  moment  later  Professor  de  Worms  entered  the 
place,  sat  down  carefully,  and  asked  for  a  glass  of 
milk. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   PROFESSOR    EXPLAINS 

When  Gabriel  Syme  found  himself  finally  estab- 
ished  in  a  chair,  and  opposite  to  him,  fixed  and  final 
also,  the  lifted  eyebrows  and  leaden  eyelids  of  the 
Professor,  his  fears  fully  returned.  This  incompre- 
hensible man  from  the  fierce  council,  after  all,  had 
certainly  pursued  him.  If  the  man  had  one  char- 
acter as  a  paralytic  and  another  character  as  a  pur- 
suer, the  antithesis  might  make  him  more  interesting, 
but  scarcely  more  soothing.  It  would  be  a  very 
small  comfort  that  he  could  not  find  the  Professor 
out,  if  by  some  serious  accident  the  Professor  should 
find  him  out.  He  emptied  a  whole  pewter  pot  of 
ale  before  the  Professor  had  touched  his  milk. 

One  possibility,  however,  kept  him  hopeful  and 
yet  helpless.  It  was  just  possible  that  this  escapade 
signified  something  other  than  even  a  shght  suspicion 
of  him.  Perhaps  it  was  some  regular  form  or  sign. 
Perhaps  the  foolish  scamper  was  some  sort  of  friendly 
signal  that  he  ought  to  have  understood.  Perhaps 
it   was  a  ritual.     Perhaps   the  new  Thursday  was 

112 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  113 

always  chased  along  Cheapsidc,  as  the  new  Lord 
Mayor  is  always  escorted  along  it.  He  was  just 
selecting  a  tentative  inquiry,  when  the  old  Professor 
opposite  suddenly  and  simply  cut  him  short.  Be- 
fore Syme  could  ask  the  first  diplomatic  question, 
the  old  anarchist  had  asked  suddenly,  without  any 
sort  of  preparation  — 

"  Are  you  a  policeman  ?  " 

Whatever  else  Syme  had  expected,  he  had  never 
expected  anything  so  brutal  and  actual  as  this. 
Even  his  great  presence  of  mind  could  only  manage 
a  reply  with  an  air  of  rather  blundering  jocu- 
larity, 

"  A  policeman  ? "  he  said,  laughing  vaguely. 
"Whatever  made  you  think  of  a  policeman  in  con- 
nection with  me?  " 

"  The  process  was  simple  enough,"  answered  the 
Professor  patiently.  "  I  thought  you  looked  like  a 
policeman.     I  think  so  now." 

"  Did  I  take  a  policeman's  hat  by  mistake  out  of 
tlie  restaurant?"  asked  Syme,  smiling  wildly. 
"  Have  I  by  any  chance  got  a  number  stuck  on  to 
rae  somewhere  ?  Have  my  boots  got  that  watchful 
look  ?  Why  must  I  be  a  policeman  ?  Do,  do  let 
me  be  a  postman," 

The  old  Professor  shook  his  head  with  a  gravity 


114        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

that  gave  no  hope,  but  Syme  ran  on  with  a  feverish 
irony. 

"  But  perhaps  I  misunderstood  the  dehcacies  of 
your  German  philosophy.  Perhaps  pohceman  is  a 
relative  term.  In  an  evolutionary  sense,  sir,  the 
ape  fades  so  gradually  into  the  policeman,  that  I 
myself  can  never  detect  the  shade.  The  monkey  is 
only  the  policeman  that  may  be.  Perhaps  a  maiden 
lady  on  Clapham  Common  is  only  the  policeman 
that  might  have  been.  I  don't  mind  being  the 
policeman  that  might  have  been.  I  don't  mind 
being  anything  in  German  thought." 

"  Are  you  in  the  police  service  ?  "  said  the  old 
man,  ignoring  all  Syme's  improvised  and  desperate 
raillery.     "  Are  you  a  detective  ?  " 

Syme's  heart  turned  to  stone,  but  his  face  never 
changed. 

•'  Your  suggestion  is  ridiculous,"  he  began. 
"Why  on  earth " 

The  old  man  struck  his  palsied  hand  passionately 
on  the  rickety  table,  nearly  breaking  it. 

•'  Did  you  hear  me  ask  a  plain  question,  you 
paltering  spy  ?  "  he  shrieked  in  a  high,  crazy  voice. 
"  Are  you,  or  are  you  not,  a  police  detective  ?  " 

"  No  !  "  answered  Syme,  like  a  man  standing  on 
the  hangman's  drop. 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  115 

"  You  swear  it,"  said  the  old  man,  leaning  across 
to  him,  iiis  dead  face  becoming  as  it  were  loath- 
somely alive.  "  You  swear  it !  You  swear  it !  If 
you  swear  falsely,  will  you  be  damned  ?  Will  you 
be  sure  that  the  devil  dances  at  your  funeral  ?  Will 
you  see  that  the  nightmare  .sits  on  your  grave? 
Will  there  really  be  no  mistake  ?  You  are  an  an- 
archist, you  are  a  dj-nainitcr!  Above  all,  you  are 
not  in  any  sense  a  detective?  You  are  not  in  the 
British  police  ?  " 

He  leant  his  angular  elbow  far  across  the  table, 
and  put  up  his  large  loose  hand  like  a  flap  to  his 
ear. 

"  I  am  not  in  the  British  police,"  said  Syme  with 
insane  calm. 

Professor  dc  Worms  fell  back  in  his  chair  with  a 
curious  air  of  kindly  collapse. 

"That's  a  pity,"  lie  said,  "  because  I  am." 

Syme  sprang  up  straight,  sending  back  the  bench 
behind  him  with  a  crash. 

"Because  you  are  what?"  he  said  thickly. 
"  You  are  what  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  policeman,"  said  the  Professor  with  his 
first  broad  smile,  and  beaming  through  his  spec- 
tacles. "  But  as  you  think  policeman  only  a  relative 
term,  of  course  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  you.     I 


ii6        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

am  in  the  British  poHce  force ;  but  as  you  tell  me 
you  are  not  in  the  British  pohce  force,  I  can  only 
say  that  I  met  you  in  a  dynamiter's  club.  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  to  arrest  you."  And  with  these 
words  he  laid  on  the  table  before  Syme  an  exact 
facsimile  of  the  blue  card  which  Syme  had  in  his 
own  waistcoat  pocket,  the  symbol  of  his  power 
from  the  police. 

Syme  had  for  a  flash  the  sensation  that  the 
cosmos  had  turned  exactly  upside  down,  that  all 
trees  were  growing  downwards  and  that  all  stars 
were  under  his  feet.  Then  came  slowly  the  oppo- 
site conviction.  For  the  last  twenty-four  hours  the 
cosmos  had  really  been  upside  down,  but  now  the 
capsized  universe  had  come  right  side  up  again. 
This  devil  from  whom  he  had  been  fleeing  all  day 
was  only  an  elder  brother  of  his  own  house,  who  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table  lay  back  and  laughed  at 
him.  He  did  not  for  the  moment  ask  any  ques- 
tions of  detail ;  he  only  knew  the  happy  and  silly 
fact  that  this  shadow,  which  had  pursued  him  with 
an  intolerable  oppression  of  peril,  was  only  the 
shadow  of  a  friend  trying  to  catch  him  up.  He 
knew  simultaneously  that  he  was  a  fool  and  a  free 
man.  For  with  any  recovery  from  morbidity  there 
must    go    a    certain    healthy  humiliation.     There 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  117 

comes  a  certain  point  in  such  conditions  when  only 
tliree  things  are  possible  :  first  a  perpetuation  of 
Satanic  pride,  secondly  tears,  and  third  laughter. 
Syme's  egotism  held  hard  to  the  first  course  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  then  suddenly  adopted  the  third. 
Taking  his  own  blue  police  ticket  from  his  own 
waistcoat  pocket,  he  tossed  it  on  to  the  table ;  then 
he  flung  his  head  back  until  his  spike  of  yellow 
beard  almost  pointed  at  the  ceiUng,  and  shouted 
with  a  barbaric  laughter. 

Even  in  that  close  den,  perpetually  filled  with  the 
din  of  knives,  plates,  cans,  clamorous  voices,  sud- 
den struggles  and  stampedes,  there  was  something 
Homeric  in  Syme's  mirth  which  made  many  half- 
drunken  men  look  round. 

•'  What  yer  laughing  at,  guv'nor  ?  "  asked  one 
wondering  labourer  from  the  docks. 

"  At  myself,"  answered  Syme,  and  went  off  again 
into  the  agony  of  his  ecstatic  reaction. 

"  Pull  yourself  together,"  said  the  Professor,  "  or 
you'll  get  hysterical.  Have  some  more  beer.  I'll 
join  you." 

"  You  haven't  drunk  your  milk,"  said  Syme. 

"  My  milk  !  "  said  the  other,  in  tones  of  withering 
and  unfathomable  contempt,  "  my  milk  !  Do  you 
think  I'd  look  at  the  beastly  stuff  when  I'm  out  of 


ii8        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

sight  of  the  bloody  anarchists  ?  We're  all  Chris- 
tians in  this  room,  though  perhaps,"  he  added, 
glancing  around  at  the  reeling  crowd,  "  not  strict 
ones.  Finish  my  milk  ?  Great  blazes !  yes,  I'll 
finish  it  right  enough  ! "  and  he  knocked  the 
tumbler  off  the  table,  making  a  crash  of  glass 
and  a  splash  of  silver  fluid. 

Syme  was  staring  at  him  with  a  happy  curiosity. 

"  I  understand  now,"  he  cried ;  "  of  course, 
you're  not  an  old  man  at  all." 

"  I  can't  take  my  face  off  here,"  replied  Professor 
de  Worms.  "  It's  rather  an  elaborate  make-up. 
As  to  whether  I'm  an  old  man,  that's  not  for  me 
to  say.     I  was  thirty- eight  last  birthday." 

"  Yes,  but  I  mean,"  said  Syme  impatiently, 
**  there's  nothing  the  matter  with  you." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  other  dispassionately,  "  I 
am  subject  to  colds." 

Syme's  laughter  at  all  this  had  about  it  a  wild 
weakness  of  relief.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  the 
paralytic  Professor  being  really  a  young  actor 
dressed  up  as  if  for  the  footlights.  But  he  felt 
that  he  would  have  laughed  as  loudly  if  a  pepper- 
pot  had  fallen  over. 

The  false  Professor  drank  and  wiped  his  false 
beard. 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  119 

"  Did  you  know,"  he  asked,  "  that  that  man 
Gogol  was  one  of  us  ?  " 

"  1  ?  No,  I  didn't  know  it,"  answered  Syme  in 
some  suqDrise.     "  But  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  I  knew  no  more  than  the  dead,"  rephed  the 
man  who  called  himself  de  Worms.  "  I  thought 
the  President  was  talking  about  me,  and  I  rattled 
in  my  boots." 

"  And  I  thought  he  was  talking  about  me,"  said 
Syme,  with  his  rather  reckless  laughter.  "  I  had 
my  hand  on  my  revolver  all  the  time." 

"  So  had  I,"  said  the  Professor  grimly;  "  so  had 
Gogol  evidently." 

Syme  struck  the  table  with  an  exclamation. 

"  Why,  there  were  three  of  us  there  !  "  he  cried. 
"  Three  out  of  seven  is  a  fighting  number.  If  we 
had  only  known  that  we  were  three ! " 

The  face  of  Professor  de  Worms  darkened,  and 
he  did  not  look  up. 

"  We  were  three,"  he  said.  "  If  we  had  been 
three  hundred  we  could  still  have  done  nothing." 

"  Not  if  we  were  three  hundred  against  four  ?  " 
asked  Syme,  jeering  rather  boisterously. 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor  with  sobriety,  "  not  if 
we  were  three  hundred  against  Sunday." 

And    the    mere    name   struck    Syme    cold    and 


I20        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

serious ;  his  laughter  had  died  in  his  heart  before  it 
could  die  on  his  lips.  The  face  of  the  unfor- 
gettable President  sprang  into  his  mind  as  startling 
as  a  coloured  photograph,  and  he  remarked  this 
difference  between  Sunday  and  all  his  satellites,  that 
their  faces,  however  fierce  or  sinister,  became 
gradually  blurred  by  memory  like  other  human 
faces,  whereas  Sunday's  seemed  almost  to  grow 
more  actual  during  absence,  as  if  a  man's  painted 
portrait  should  slowly  come  alive. 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  measure  of  moments, 
and  then  Syme's  speech  came  with  a  rush,  hke  the 
sudden  foaming  of  champagne. 

"  Professor,"  he  cried,  '•  it  is  intolerable.  Are 
you  afraid  of  this  man  ?  " 

The  Professor  lifted  his  heavy  lids,  and  gazed  at 
Syme  with  large,  wide-open,  blue  eyes  of  an  al- 
most ethereal  honesty. 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  he  said  mildly.     "  So  are  you." 

Syme  was  dumb  for  an  instant.  Then  he  rose  to 
his  feet  erect,  like  an  insulted  man,  and  thrust  the 
chair  away  from  him. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  in  a  voice  indescribable, "  you  are 
right.  I  am  afraid  of  him.  Therefore  I  swear  by 
God  that  I  will  seek  out  this  man  whom  I  fear 
until  I  find  him,  and  strike  him  on  the  mouth.     If 


THE  PROFESSOR   EXPLAINS  121 

heaven  were  his  throne  and  the  earth  his  footstool, 
I  swear  that  I  would  pull  him  down." 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  staring  Professor.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  of  him,"  said  Syme ;  "  and 
no  man  should  leave  in  the  universe  anything  of 
which  he  is  afraid." 

De  Worms  blinked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  blind 
wonder.  He  made  an  effort  to  speak,  but  Syme 
went  on  in  a  low  voice,  but  with  an  undercurrent 
of  inhuman  exaltation  — 

"  Who  would  condescend  to  strike  down  the  mere 
things  that  he  docs  not  fear  ?  Who  would  debase 
himself  to  be  merely  brave,  like  any  common  prize- 
fighter? Who  would  stoop  to  be  fearless — like  a 
tree?  Fight  the  thing  that  you  fear.  You  remem- 
ber the  old  tale  of  the  English  clergyman  who  gave 
the  last  rites  to  the  brigand  of  Sicily,  and  how  on 
his  death-bed  the  great  robber  said, '  I  can  gi\-e  you 
no  money,  but  I  can  give  you  advice  for  a  lifetime: 
your  thumb  on  the  blade,  and  strike  upwards.'  So  I 
say  to  you,  strike  upwards,  if  you  strike  at  the  stars." 

The  other  looked  at  the  ceiling,  one  of  the  tricks 
of  his  pose. 

"  Sunday  is  a  fixed  star,"  he  said. 

"  You  shall  see  him  a  falling  star,"  said  Syme, 
and  put  on  his  hat. 


122        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

The  decision  of  his  gesture  drew  the  Professor 
vaguely  to  his  feet. 

"  Have  you  any  idea,"  he  asked,  with  a  sort  of 
benevolent  bewilderment,  "  exactly  where  you  are 
going  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Syme  shortly,  **  I  am  going  to 
prevent  this  bomb  being  thrown  in  Paris." 

"  Have  you  any  conception  how  ?  "  inquired  the 
other. 

"  No,"  said  Syme  with  equal  decision. 

"  You  remember,  of  course,"  resumed  the  soi- 
disant  de  Worms,  pulling  his  beard  and  looking  out 
of  the  window,  "  that  when  we  broke  up  rather 
hurriedly  the  whole  arrangements  for  the  atrocity 
were  left  in  the  private  hands  of  the  Marquis  and 
Dr.  Bull.  The  Marquis  is  by  this  time  probably 
crossing  the  Channel.  But  where  he  will  go  and 
what  he  will  do  it  is  doubtful  whether  even  the 
President  knows ;  certainly  we  don't.  The  only 
man  who  does  know  is  Dr.  Bull." 

"  Confound  it !  "  cried  Syme.  "  And  we  don't 
know  where  he  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other  in  his  curious,  absent- 
minded  way,  "  I  know  where  he  is  myself." 

"  Will  you  tell  me  ? "  asked  Syme  with  eager 
eyes. 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  123 

"  I  will  take  you  there,"  said  the  Professor,  and 
took  down  his  own  hat  from  a  peg. 

Syme  stood  looking  at  him  with  a  sort  of  rigid 
excitement. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked  sharply.  "  Will 
you  join  me  ?     Will  you  take  the  risk  ?  " 

"  Young  man,"  said  the  Professor  pleasantly,  '♦  I 
am  amused  to  observe  that  you  think  I  am  a  coward. 
As  to  that  I  will  say  only  one  word,  and  that  shall 
be  entirely  in  the  manner  of  your  own  philosophical 
rhetoric.  You  think  that  it  is  possible  to  pull  down 
the  President.  I  know  that  it  is  impossible,  and  I 
am  going  to  try  it,"  and  opening  the  tavern  door, 
which  let  in  a  blast  of  bitter  air,  they  went  out 
together  into  the  dark  streets  by  the  docks. 

Most  of  the  snow  was  melted  or  trampled  to  mud, 
but  here  and  there  a  clot  of  it  still  showed  grey 
rather  than  white  in  the  gloom.  The  small  streets 
were  sloppy  and  full  of  pools,  which  reflected  the 
flaming  lamps  irregularly,  and  by  accident,  like 
fragments  of  some  other  and  fallen  world.  Syme 
felt  almost  dazed  as  he  stepped  through  this  grow- 
ing confusion  of  lights  and  shadows ;  but  his  com- 
panion walked  on  with  a  certain  briskness  towards 
where,  at  the  end  of  the  street,  an  inch  or  two  of 
the  lamplit  river  looked  like  a  bar  of  flame. 


124 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  Syme  inquired. 

"  Just  now,"  answered  the  Professor, "  I  am  going 
just  round  the  corner  to  see  whether  Dr.  Bull  has 
gone  to  bed.     He  is  hygienic,  and  retires  early." 

"  Dr.  Bull !  "  exclaimed  Syme.  "  Does  he  live 
round  the  corner  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  his  friend.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact  he  lives  some  way  off,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
river,  but  we  can  tell  from  here  whether  he  has  gone 
to  bed." 

Turning  the  corner  as  he  spoke,  and  facing  the 
dim  river,  flecked  with  flame,  he  pointed  with  his 
stick  to  the  other  bank.  On  the  Surrey  side  at 
this  point  there  ran  out  into  the  Thames,  seeming 
almost  to  overhang  it,  a  bulk  and  cluster  of  those 
tall  tenements,  dotted  with  lighted  windows,  and 
rising  like  factory  chimneys  to  an  almost  insane 
height.  Their  special  poise  and  position  made  one 
block  of  buildings  especially  look  like  a  Tower  of 
Babel  with  a  hundred  eyes.  Syme  had  never  seen 
any  of  the  sky-scraping  buildings  in  America,  so 
he  could  only  think  of  the  buildings  in  a  dream. 

Even  as  he  stared,  the  highest  light  in  this  innu- 
merably lighted  turret  abruptly  went  out,  as  if  this 
black  Argus  had  winked  at  him  with  one  of  his  in- 
numerable eyes. 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  125 

Professor  dc  Worms  swung  round  on  his  heel, 
and  struck  his  stick  against  his  boot. 

"  We  are  too  late,"  he  said,  "  the  hygienic  Doctor 
has  gone  to  bed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Symc.  "  Does  he 
hvc  over  there,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  de  Worms,  "  behind  that  particular 
window  which  you  can't  sec.  Come  along  and  get 
some  dinner.  We  must  call  on  him  to-morrow 
morning." 

Without  further  parley,  he  led  the  way  through 
several  by-ways  until  they  came  out  into  the  flare 
and  clamour  of  the  East  India  Dock  Road.  The 
Professor,  who  seemed  to  know  his  way  about  the 
neighbourhood,  proceeded  to  a  place  where  the  line 
of  lighted  shops  fell  back  into  a  sort  of  abrupt 
twilight  and  quiet,  in  which  an  old  white  inn,  all 
out  of  repair,  stood  back  some  twenty  feet  from  the 
road. 

"  You  can  find  good  English  inns  left  by  accident 
everywhere,  like  fossils,"  explained  the  Professor. 
"  I  once  found  a  decent  place  in  the  West  End." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Syme,  smiling,  "  that  this  is  the 
corresponding  decent  place  in  the  East  End?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  the  Professor  reverently,  and  went  in. 

In    that  place  they  dined  and   slept,  both  very 


126        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

thoroughly.  The  beans  and  bacon,  which  these  un- 
accountable people  cooked  well,  the  astonishing 
emergence  of  Burgundy  from  their  cellars,  crowned 
Syme's  sense  of  a  new  comradeship  and  comfort. 
Through  all  this  ordeal  his  root  horror  had  been 
isolation,  and  there  are  no  words  to  express  the 
abyss  between  isolation  and  having  one  ally.  It 
may  be  conceded  to  the  mathematicians  that  four  is 
twice  two.  But  two  is  not  twice  one  ;  two  is  two 
thousand  times  one.  That  is  why,  in  spite  of  a 
hundred  disadvantages,  the  world  will  always  return 
to  monogamy. 

Syme  was  able  to  pour  out  for  the  first  time  the 
whole  of  his  outrageous  tale,  from  the  time  when 
Gregory  had  taken  him  to  the  little  tavern  by  the 
river.  He  did  it  idly  and  amply,  in  a  luxuriant 
monologue,  as  a  man  speaks  with  very  old  friends. 
On  his  side,  also,  the  man  who  had  impersonated 
Professor  de  Worms  was  not  less  communicative. 
His    own   story   was    almost    as   silly   as    Syme's. 

"  That's  a  good  get-up  of  yours,"  said  Syme, 
draining  a  glass  of  Macon;  "  a  lot  better  than  old 
Gogol's.  Even  at  the  start  I  thought  he  was  a  bit 
too  hairy." 

"  A  difference  of  artistic  theory,"  replied  the 
Professor  pensively.     "  Gogol  was  an  idealist.     He 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  127 

made  up  as  the  abstract  or  platonic  ideal  of  an 
anarchist.  But  I  am  a  rcaHst.  I  am  a  portrait 
painter.  But,  indeed,  to  say  that  I  am  a  portrait 
painter  is  an  inadequate  expression.  I  am  a 
portrait." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Syme. 

"  I  am  a  portrait,"  repeated  the  Professor.  "  I 
am  a  portrait  of  the  celebrated  Professor  de  Worms, 
who  is,  I  believe,  in  Naples." 

"  You  mean  you  are  made  up  like  him,"  said 
Syme.  "  But  doesn't  he  know  that  you  are  taking 
his  nose  in  vain  ?  " 

"  He  knows  it  right  enough,"  replied  his  friend 
cheerfully. 

"  Then  why  doesn't  he  denounce  you  ?  " 

"  I  have  denounced  him,"  answered  the  Professor. 

"  Do  explain  yourself,"  said  Syme. 

"  With  pleasure,  if  you  don't  mind  hearing  my 
story,"  replied  the  eminent  foreign  philosopher.  "  I 
am  by  profession  an  actor,  and  my  name  is  Wilks. 
When  I  was  on  the  stage  I  mixed  with  all  sorts  of 
Bohemian  and  blackguard  company.  Sometimes  I 
touched  the  edge  of  the  turf,  sometimes  the  riflTraff 
of  the  arts,  and  occasionally  the  political  refugee. 
In  some  den  of  exiled  dreamers  I  was  introduced  to 
the  great  German  Nihilist  philosopher.  Professor  de 


128        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Worms.  I  did  not  gather  much  about  him  beyond 
his  appearance,  which  was  very  disgusting,  and 
which  I  studied  carefully.  I  understood  that  he 
had  proved  that  the  destructive  principle  in  the 
universe  was  God ;  hence  he  insisted  on  the  need 
for  a  furious  and  incessant  energy,  rending  all 
things  in  pieces.  Energy,  he  said,  was  the  All. 
He  was  lame,  short-sighted,  and  partially  paralytic. 
When  I  met  him  I  was  in  a  frivolous  mood,  and  I 
disliked  him  so  much  that  I  resolved  to  imitate  him. 
If  I  had  been  a  draughtsman  I  would  have  drawn  a 
caricature.  I  was  only  an  actor,  I  could  only  act  a 
caricature.  I  made  myself  up  into  what  was  meant 
for  a  wild  exaggeration  of  the  old  Professor's  dirty 
old  self.  When  I  went  into  the  room  full  of  his 
supporters  I  expected  to  be  received  with  a  roar  of 
laughter,  or  (if  they  were  too  far  gone)  with  a  roar 
of  indignation  at  the  insult.  I  cannot  describe  the 
surprise  I  felt  when  my  entrance  was  received  with 
a  respectful  silence,  followed  (when  I  had  first 
opened  my  lips)  with  a  murmur  of  admiration. 
The  curse  of  the  perfect  artist  had  fallen  upon  me. 
I  had  been  too  subtle,  I  had  been  too  true.  They 
thought  I  really  was  the  great  Nihilist  Professor.  I 
was  a  healthy-minded  young  man  at  the  time,  and 
I  confess  that  it  was  a  blow.     Before  I  could  fully 


THE  PROFESSOR  EXPLAINS  129 

recover,  however,  two  or  three  of  these  admirers 
ran  up  to  me  radiating  indignation,  and  told  me  that 
a  public  insult  had  been  put  upon  me  in  the  next 
room.  I  inquired  its  nature.  It  seemed  that  an 
impertinent  fellow  had  dressed  himself  up  as  a  pre- 
posterous parody  of  myself.  I  had  drunk  more 
champagne  than  was  good  for  me,  and  in  a  flash  of 
folly  I  decided  to  see  the  situation  through.  Con- 
sequently it  was  to  meet  the  glare  of  the  company 
and  my  own  lifted  eyebrows  and  freezing  eyes  that 
the  real  Professor  came  into  the  room. 

"  I  need  hardly  say  there  was  a  collision.  The 
pessimists  all  round  me  looked  anxiously  from  one 
Professor  to  the  other  Professor  to  see  which  was 
really  the  more  feeble.  But  I  won.  An  old  man 
in  poor  health,  like  my  rival,  could  not  be  expected 
to  be  so  impressively  feeble  as  a  young  actor  in  the 
prime  of  life.  You  see,  he  really  had  paralysis,  and 
working  within  this  definite  limitation,  he  couldn't 
be  so  jolly  paralj'tic  as  I  was.  Then  he  tried  to 
blast  my  claims  intellectually.  I  countered  that  by 
a  very  simple  dodge.  Whenever  he  said  something 
that  nobody  but  he  could  understand,  I  replied  with 
something  which  I  could  not  even  understand  my- 
self. '  I  don't  fancy,'  he  said,  '  that  )'Ou  could  have 
worked  out  the  principle  that  evolution  is  only  nc- 


I30       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

gation,  since  there  inheres  in  it  the  introduction  of 
lacunae,  which  are  an  essential  of  differentiation.'  I 
rephed  quite  scornfully,  *  You  read  all  that  up  in 
Pinckwerts;  the  notion  that  involution  functioned 
eugenically  was  exposed  long  ago  by  Glumpe.'  It 
is  unnecessary  for  me  to  say  that  there  never  were 
such  people  as  Pinckwerts  and  Glumpe.  But  the 
people  all  round  (rather  to  my  surprise)  seemed  to 
remember  them  quite  well,  and  the  Professor,  find- 
ing that  the  learned  and  mysterious  method  left  him 
rather  at  the  mercy  of  an  enemy  slightly  deficient 
in  scruples,  fell  back  upon  a  more  popular  form  of 
wit.  •  I  see,'  he  sneered,  *  you  prevail  like  the  false 
pig  in  yEsop.'  '  And  you  fail,'  I  answered,  smiHng, 
'  like  the  hedgehog  in  Montaigne.'  Need  I  say  that 
there  is  no  hedgehog  in  Montaigne  ?  *  Your  clap- 
trap comes  off,'  he  said ;  *  so  would  your  beard.'  I 
had  no  intelligent  answer  to  this,  which  was  quite 
true  and  rather  witty.  But  I  laughed  heartily,  an- 
swered, '  Like  the  Pantheist's  boots,'  at  random, 
and  turned  on  my  heel  with  all  the  honours 
of  victory.  The  real  Professor  was  thrown  out, 
but  not  with  violence,  though  one  man  tried  very 
patiently  to  pull  off  his  nose.  He  is  now,  I  be- 
lieve, received  everywhere  in  Europe  as  a  de- 
lightful impostor.     His  apparent    earnestness    and 


THE   PROFESSOR   EXI'LAINS  131 

anger  you  sec,  make  him  all  the  more  enter- 
taining." 

"  Well,"  said  Syme,  "  I  can  understand  your  put- 
ting on  his  dirty  old  beard  for  a  night's  practical 
joke,  but  I  don't  understand  your  never  taking  it 
off  again." 

"  That  is  the  rest  of  the  story,"  said  the  imper- 
sonator. "  When  I  myself  left  the  company,  fol- 
lowed by  reverent  applause,  I  went  limping  down 
the  dark  street,  hoping  that  I  should  soon  be  far 
enough  away  to  be  able  to  walk  like  a  human  being. 
To  my  astonishment,  as  I  was  turning  the  corner, 
I  felt  a  touch  on  the  shoulder,  and  turning,  found 
myself  under  the  shadow  of  an  enormous  policeman. 
He  told  me  I  was  wanted.  I  struck  a  sort  of  para- 
lytic attitude,  and  cried  in  a  high  German  accent, 

•  Yes,  I  am  wanted — by  the  oppressed  of  tlic  world. 
You  are  arresting  me  on  the  charge  of  being  the 
great  anarchist,  Professor  de  Worms.'  The  police- 
man   impassively   consulted  a  paper  in  his  hand. 

*  No,  sir,'  he  said  civilly,  •  at  lea.st,  not  exactly,  sir. 
I  am  arresting  you  on  the  charge  of  not  being  the 
celebrated  anarchist,  Professor  de  Worms.'  This 
charge,  if  it  was  criminal  at  all,  was  certainly  the 
lighter  of  the  two,  and  I  went  along  with  the  man, 
doubtful,  but  not  greatly  dismayed.     I  was  shown 


132       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

into  a  number  of  rooms,  and  eventually  into  the 
presence  of  a  police  officer,  who  explained  that  a 
serious  campaign  had  been  opened  against  the  cen- 
tres of  anarchy,  and  that  this,  my  successful  masquer- 
ade, might  be  of  considerable  value  to  the  public 
safety.  He  offered  me  a  good  salary  and  this  little 
blue  card.  Though  our  conversation  was  short,  he 
struck  me  as  a  man  of  very  massive  common  sense 
and  humour ;  but  I  cannot  tell  you  much  about  him 
personally,  because " 

Syme  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork. 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  because  you  talked  to  him 
in  a  dark  room." 

Professor  de  Worms  nodded  and  drained  his 
glass. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  MAN   IN   SPECTACLES 

"  Burgundy  is  a  jolly  thing,"  said  tlie  Professor 
sadly,  as  he  set  his  glass  down. 

"  You  don't  look  as  if  it  were,"  said  Symc ;  "  you 
drink  it  as  if  it  were  medicine." 

"  You  must  excuse  my  manner,"  said  the  Professor 
dismally,  "  my  position  is  rather  a  curious  one. 
Inside  I  am  really  bursting  with  boyish  merriment; 
but  I  acted  the  paralytic  Professor  so  well,  that  now 
I  can't  leave  off.  So  that  when  I  am  among  friends, 
and  have  no  need  at  all  to  disguise  myself,  I  still 
can't  help  speaking  slow  and  wrinkling  my  forehead 
— ^just  as  if  it  were  my  forehead.  I  can  be  quite 
happy,  you  understand,  but  only  in  a  paralytic  sort 
of  way.  The  most  buoyant  exclamations  leap  up  in 
my  heart,  but  they  come  out  of  my  mouth  (}uite 
different.  You  should  hear  me  say,  '  Puck  up,  old 
cock  ! '  it  would  bring  tears  to  your  eyes." 

"  It  docs,"  said  Syme ;  "  but  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  apart  from  all  that  you  are  really  a  bit 
worried." 

U3 


134 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


The  Professor  started  a  little  and  looked  at  him 
steadily. 

"  You  are  a  very  clever  fellow,"  he  said,  "  it  is  a 
pleasure  to  work  with  you.  Yes,  I  have  rather  a 
heavy  cloud  in  my  head.  There  is  a  great  problem 
to  face,"  and  he  sank  his  bald  brow  in  his  two  hands. 

Then  he  said  in  a  low  voice  — 

"  Can  you  play  the  piano  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme  in  simple  wonder,  "  I'm  sup- 
posed to  have  a  good  touch." 

Then,  as  the  other  did  not  speak,  he  added  — 

"  I  trust  the  great  cloud  is  hfted." 

After  a  long  silence,  the  Professor  said  out  of  the 
cavernous  shadow  of  his  hands  — 

"  It  would  have  done  just  as  well  if  you  could 
work  a  typewriter," 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Syme,  "  you  flatter  me." 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  the  other,  "  and  remember 
whom  we  have  to  see  to-morrow.  You  and  I  are 
going  to-morrow  to  attempt  something  which  is  very 
much  more  dangerous  than  trying  to  steal  the  Crown 
Jewels  out  of  the  Tower.  We  are  trying  to  steal  a 
secret  from  a  very  sharp,  very  strong,  and  very 
wicked  man.  I  believe  there  is  no  man,  except  the 
President,  of  course,  who  is  so  seriously  startling  and 
formidable  as  that  little  grinning  fellow  in  goggles. 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  135 

He  has  not  perhaps  the  white-hot  enthusiasm  unto 
death,  the  mad  martyrdom  for  anarchy,  which  marks 
the  Secretary.  But  then  that  very  fanaticism  in 
the  Secretary  has  a  human  pathos,  and  is  almost  a 
redeeming  trait.  But  the  Uttle  Doctor  has  a  brutal 
sanity  that  is  more  shocking  than  the  Secretary's 
disease.  Don't  you  notice  his  detestable  virility 
and  vitality.  He  bounces  like  an  india-rubber  ball. 
Depend  on  it,  Sunday  was  not  asleep  (I  wonder  if 
he  ever  sleeps  ?)  when  he  locked  up  all  the  plans  of 
this  outrage  in  the  round,  black  head  of  Dr.  Bull," 

"  And  you  think,"  said  Syme,  '•  that  this  unique 
monster  will  be  soothed  if  I  play  the  piano  to  him  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  his  mentor.  "  I  men- 
tioned the  piano  because  it  gives  one  quick  and 
independent  fingers.  Syme,  if  we  are  to  go  through 
this  interview  and  come  out  sane  or  alive,  we  must 
have  some  code  of  signals  between  us  that  this  brute 
will  not  see.  I  have  made  a  rough  alphabetical 
cypher  corresponding  to  the  five  fingers — like  this, 
see,"  and  he  rippled  with  his  fingers  on  the  wooden 
table — "  BAD,  bad,  a  word  we  may  frequently 
require." 

Syme  poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  wine, 
and  began  to  study  the  scheme.  He  was  abnormally 
quick  with  his  brains  at  puzzles,  and  with  his  hands 


136       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

at  conjuring,  and  it  did  not  take  him  long  to  learn 
how  he  might  convey  simple  messages  by  what 
would  seem  to  be  idle  taps  upon  a  table  or  knee. 
But  wine  and  companionship  had  always  the  effect 
of  inspiring  him  to  a  farcical  ingenuity,  and  the 
Professor  soon  found  himself  struggling  with  the 
too  vast  energy  of  the  new  language,  as  it  passed 
through  the  heated  brain  of  Syme. 

"  We  must  have  several  word-signs,"  said  Syme 
seriously — '*  words  that  we  are  likely  to  want,  fine 
shades  of  meaning.  My  favourite  word  is  '  coeval.' 
What's  yours  ?  " 

"  Do  stop  playing  the  goat,"  said  the  Professor 
plaintively.    "  You  don't  know  how  serious  this  is." 

" '  Lush,'  too,"  said  Syme,  shaking  his  head 
sagaciously,  "  we  must  have  *  lush,' — word  applied 
to  grass,  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"  Do  you  imagine,"  asked  the  Professor  furiously, 
"  that  we  are  going  to  talk  to  Dr.  Bull  about  grass  ?" 

"  There  are  several  ways  in  which  the  subject 
could  be  approached,"  said  Syme  reflectively,  "  and 
the  word  introduced  without  appearing  forced.  We 
might  say, '  Dr.  Bull,  as  a  revolutionist,  you  remem- 
ber that  a  tyrant  once  advised  us  to  eat  grass ;  and 
indeed  many  of  us,  looking  on  the  fresh  lush  grass 
of  summer '  " 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  137 

"  Do  you  understand,"  said  the  other,  "  that  this 
is  a  tragedy  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  repHed  Syme ;  "  always  be  comic  in 
a  tragedy.  What  the  deuce  else  can  you  do  ?  I 
wish  this  language  of  yours  had  a  wider  scope. 
I  suppose  we  could  not  extend  it  from  the  fingers 
to  the  toes  ?  That  would  involve  pulling  off  our 
boots  and  socks  during  the  conversation,  which 
however  unobtrusively  performed " 

"  Syme,"  said  his  friend  with  a  stern  simplicity, 
"  go  to  bed  !  " 

Syme,  however,  sat  up  in  bed  for  a  considerable 
time  mastering  the  new  code.  He  was  awakened 
next  morning  while  the  east  was  still  sealed  with 
darkness,  and  found  his  grey-bearded  ally  standing 
like  a  ghost  beside  his  bed. 

Syme  sat  up  in  bed  blinking  ;  then  slowly  collected 
his  thoughts,  threw  ofif  the  bedclothes,  and  stood 
up.  It  seemed  to  him  in  some  curious  way  that  all 
the  safety  and  sociability  of  the  night  before  fell  with 
the  bedclothes  off  him,  and  he  stood  up  in  an  air  of 
cold  danger.  He  still  felt  an  entire  trust  and  loyalty 
towards  his  companion  ;  but  it  was  the  trust  between 
two  men  going  to  the  scaffold. 

"  Well,"  said  Syme  with  a  forced  cheerfulness  as 
he   pulled  on    his  trousers,  "  I  dreamt  of  that  al- 


138       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

phabet  of  yours.  Did  it  take  you  long  to  make  it 
up?" 

The  Professor  made  no  answer,  but  gazed  in  front 
of  him  with  eyes  the  colour  of  a  wintry  sea ;  so 
Syme  repeated  his  question. 

"  I  say,  did  it  take  you  long  to  invent  all  this  ? 
I'm  considered  good  at  these  things,  and  it  was  a 
good  hour's  grind.  Did  you  learn  it  all  on  the 
spot  ? " 

The  Professor  was  silent;  his  eyes  were  wide 
open,  and  he  wore  a  fixed  but  very  small  smile. 

"  How  long  did  it  take  you  ?  " 

The  Professor  did  not  move. 

"  Confound  you,  can't  you  answer  ?  "  called  out 
Syme,  in  a  sudden  anger  that  had  something  like 
fear  underneath.  Whether  or  no  the  Professor 
could  answer,  he  did  not. 

Syme  stood  staring  back  at  the  stiff  face  like 
parchment  and  the  blank,  blue  eyes.  His  first 
thought  was  that  the  Professor  had  gone  mad,  but 
his  second  thought  was  more  frightful.  After  all, 
what  did  he  know  about  this  queer  creature  whom 
he  had  heedlessly  accepted  as  a  friend  ?  What  did 
he  know,  except  that  the  man  had  been  at  the 
anarchist  breakfast  and  had  told  him  a  ridiculous 
tale  ?     How  improbable  it  was  that  there  should  be 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  139 

another  friend  there  beside  Gogol !  Was  this  man's 
silence  a  sensational  way  of  declaring  war  ?  Was 
this  adamantine  stare  after  all  only  the  awful  sneer 
of  some  threefold  traitor,  who  had  turned  for  the 
last  time  ?  He  stood  and  strained  his  ears  in  this 
heartless  silence.  He  almost  fancied  he  could  hear 
dynamiters  come  to  capture  him  shifting  softly  in 
the  corridor  outside. 

Then  his  eye  strayed  downwards,  and  he  burst 
out  laughing.  Though  the  Professor  himself  stood 
there  as  voiceless  as  a  statue,  his  five  dumb  fingers 
were  dancing  alive  upon  the  dead  table.  Syme 
watched  the  twinkling  movements  of  the  talking 
hand,  and  read  clearly  the  message  — 

"  I  will  only  talk  like  this.  We  must  get  used  to 
it." 

He  rapped  out  the  answer  with  the  impatience  of 
rehef — 

"  All  right.     Let's  get  out  to  breakfast." 

They  took  their  hats  and  sticks  in  silence ;  but  as 
Syme  took  his  sword-stick,  he  held  it  hard. 

They  paused  for  a  few  minutes  only  to  stuff  down 
coffee  and  coarse  thick  sandwiches  at  a  coffee  stall, 
and  then  made  their  way  across  the  river,  which 
under  the  grey  and  growing  light  looked  as  desolate 
as  Acheron.     They  reached  the  bottom  of  the  huge 


I40       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

block  of  buildings  which  they  had  seen  from  across 
the  river,  and  began  in  silence  to  mount  the  naked 
and  numberless  stone  steps,  only  pausing  now  and 
then  to  make  short  remarks  on  the  rail  of  the 
banisters.  At  about  every  other  flight  they  passed 
a  window ;  each  window  showed  them  a  pale  and 
tragic  dawn  lifting  itself  laboriously  over  London. 
From  each  the  innumerable  roofs  of  slate  looked 
like  the  leaden  surges  of  a  grey,  troubled  sea  after 
rain.  Syme  was  increasingly  conscious  that  his  new 
adventure  had  somehow  a  quality  of  cold  sanity 
worse  than  the  wild  adventures  of  the  past.  Last 
night,  for  instance,  the  tall  tenements  had  seemed  to 
him  like  a  tower  in  a  dream.  As  he  now  went  up 
the  weary  and  perpetual  steps,  he  was  daunted  and 
bewildered  by  their  almost  infinite  series.  But  it 
was  not  the  hot  horror  of  a  dream  or  of  anything 
that  might  be  exaggeration  or  delusion.  Their  in- 
finity was  more  like  the  empty  infinity  of  arithmetic, 
something  unthinkable,  yet  necessary  to  thought. 
Or  it  was  like  the  stunning  statements  of  astronomy 
about  the  distance  of  the  fixed  stars.  He  was  as- 
cending the  house  of  reason,  a  thing  more  hideous 
than  unreason  itself 

By  the  time  they  reached  Dr.  Bull's  landing,  a  last 
window  showed  them  a  harsh,  white  dawn  edged 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  141 

with  banks  of  a  kind  of  coarse  red,  more  like  red 
clay  than  red  cloud.  And  when  they  entered  Dr. 
Bull's  bare  garret  it  was  full  of  light. 

Syme  had  been  haunted  by  a  half  historic  memory 
in  connection  with  these  empty  rooms  and  that 
austere  daybreak.  The  moment  he  saw  the  garret 
and  Dr.  Bull  sitting  writing  at  a  table,  he  remem- 
bered what  the  memory  was — the  French  Revolu- 
tion. There  should  have  been  the  black  outline  of 
a  guillotine  against  that  heavy  red  and  white  of  the 
morning.  Dr.  Bull  was  in  his  white  shirt  and  black 
breeches  only ;  his  cropped,  dark  head  might  well 
have  just  come  out  of  its  wig ;  he  might  have  been 
Marat  or  a  more  slipshod  Robespierre. 

Yet  when  he  was  seen  properly,  the  French  fancy 
fell  away.  The  Jacobins  were  idealists  ;  there  was 
about  this  man  a  murderous  materialism.  His 
position  gave  him  a  somewhat  new  appearance. 
The  strong,  white  light  of  morning  coming  from  one 
side  creating  sharp  shadows,  made  him  seem  both 
more  pale  and  more  angular  than  he  had  looked  at 
the  breakfast  on  the  balcony.  Thus  the  two  black 
glasses  that  encased  his  eyes  might  really  have  been 
black  cavities  in  his  skull,  making  him  look  like  a 
death's-head.  And  indeed,  if  ever  Death  himself  sat 
writing  at  a  wooden  table,  it  might  have  been  he. 


142        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

He  looked  up  and  smiled  brightly  enough  as  the 
men  came  in,  and  rose  with  the  resilient  rapidity  of 
which  the  Professor  had  spoken.  He  set  chairs  for 
both  of  them,  and  going  to  a  peg  behind  the  door, 
proceeded  to  put  on  a  coat  and  waistcoat  of  rough, 
dark  tweed;  he  buttoned  it  up  neatly,  and  came 
back  to  sit  down  at  his  table. 

The  quiet  good  humour  of  his  manner  left  his 
two  opponents  helpless.  It  was  with  some  mo- 
mentary difificulty  that  the  Professor  broke  silence 
and  began,  "  I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you  so  early, 
comrade,"  said  he,  with  a  careful  resumption  of  the 
slow  de  Worms  manner.  "  You  have  no  doubt 
made  all  the  arrangements  for  the  Paris  affair  ? " 
Then  he  added  with  infinite  slowness,  •'  We  have 
information  which  renders  intolerable  anything  in 
the  nature  of  a  moment's  delay." 

Dr.  Bull  smiled  again,  but  continued  to  gaze  on 
them  without  speaking.  The  Professor  resumed,  a 
pause  before  each  weary  word  — 

"  Please  do  not  think  me  excessively  abrupt ;  but 
I  advise  you  to  alter  those  plans,  or  if  it  is  too  late 
for  that,  to  follow  your  agent  with  all  the  support 
you  can  get  for  him.  Comrade  Syme  and  I  have 
had  an  experience  which  it  would  take  more  time 
to  recount  than  we  can  afford,  if  we  are  to  act  on  it. 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  143 

I  will,  however,  relate  the  occurrence  in  detail,  even 
at  the  risk  of  losing  time,  if  you  really  feel  that  it 
is  essential  to  the  understanding  of  tlic  problem  wc 
have  to  discuss." 

He  was  spinning  out  his  sentences,  making  them 
intolerably  long  and  lingering,  in  the  hope  of  mad- 
dening the  practical  little  Doctor  into  an  explosion 
of  impatience  which  might  show  his  hand.  But 
the  little  Doctor  continued  only  to  stare  and  smile, 
and  the  monologue  was  uphill  work.  Syme  began 
to  feel  a  new  sickness  and  despair.  The  Doctor's 
smile  and  silence  were  not  at  all  like  the  cataleptic 
stare  and  horrible  silence  which  he  had  confronted 
in  the  Professor  half  an  hour  before.  About  the 
Professor's  make-up  and  all  his  antics  there  was 
always  something  merely  grotesque,  like  a  golly- 
wog.  Syme  remembered  those  wild  woes  of 
yesterday  as  one  remembers  being  afraid  of  Bogy 
in  childhood.  But  here  was  daylight:  here  was  a 
healthy,  square-shouldered  man  in  tweeds,  not  odd 
save  for  the  accident  of  his  ugly  spectacles,  not 
glaring  or  grinning  at  all,  but  smiling  steadily  and 
not  saying  a  word.  The  whole  had  a  sense  of  un- 
bearable reality.  Under  the  increasing  sunlight 
the  colours  of  the  Doctor's  complexion,  the 
pattern   of   his    tweeds,  grew  and   expanded   out- 


144       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

rageously,  as  such  things  grow  too  important  in 
a  reahstic  novel.  But  his  smile  was  quite  slight, 
the  pose  of  his  head  pohte;  the  only  uncanny 
thing  was  his  silence. 

"  As  I  say,"  resumed  the  Professor,  like  a  man 
toiling  through  heavy  sand,  "  the  incident  that  has 
occurred  to  us  and  has  led  us  to  ask  for  informa- 
tion about  the  Marquis,  is  one  which  you  may 
think  it  better  to  have  narrated;  but  as  it  came 
in  the  way  of  Comrade  Syme  rather  than  me " 

His  words  he  seemed  to  be  dragging  out  like 
words  in  an  anthem ;  but  Syme,  who  was  watching, 
saw  his  long  fingers  rattle  quickly  on  the  edge  of 
the  crazy  table.  He  read  the  message,  "  You  must 
go  on.     This  devil  has  sucked  me  dry !  " 

Syme  plunged  into  the  breach  with  that  bravado 
of  improvisation  which  always  came  to  him  when 
he  was  alarmed. 

"  Yes,  the  thing  really  happened  to  me,"  he  said 
hastily.  "  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall  into  con- 
versation with  a  detective  who  took  me,  thanks  to 
my  hat,  for  a  respectable  person.  Wishing  to  clinch 
my  reputation  for  respectability,  I  took  him  and 
made  him  very  drunk  at  the  Savoy.  Under  this 
influence  he  became  friendly,  and  told  me  in  so 
many  words  that  within  a  day  or  two  they  hope  to 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  145 

arrest  the  Marquis  in  France.  So  unless  you  or  I 
can  get  on  his  track " 

The  Doctor  was  still  smiling  in  the  most  friendly- 
way,  and  his  protected  eyes  were  still  impenetrable. 
The  Professor  signalled  to  Syme  that  he  would  re- 
sume his  explanation,  and  he  began  again  with  the 
same  elaborate  calm. 

"  Syme  immediately  brought  this  information  to 
me,  and  we  came  here  together  to  see  what  use  you 
would  be  inclined  to  make  of  it.  It  seems  to  me 
unquestionably  urgent  that " 

All  this  time  Syme  had  been  staring  at  the 
Doctor  almost  as  steadily  as  the  Doctor  stared  at 
the  Professor,  but  quite  without  the  smile.  The 
nerves  of  both  comrades-in-arms  were  near  snap- 
ping under  that  strain  of  motionless  amiability, 
when  Syme  suddenly  leant  forward  and  idly  tapped 
the  edge  of  the  table.  His  message  to  his  ally  ran, 
"  I  have  an  intuition." 

The  Professor,  with  scarcely  a  pause  in  his  mono- 
logue, signalled  back,  "  Then  sit  on  it." 

Syme  telegraphed,  "  It  is  quite  extraordinary." 

The  other  answered,  "  Extraordinary  rot !  " 

Syme  said,  "  I  am  a  poet." 

The  other  retorted,  "  You  are  a  dead  man." 

Syme  had   gone  quite  red  up  to  his  j-cllow  hair, 


146       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

and  his  eyes  were  burning  feverishly.  As  he  said, 
he  had  an  intuition,  and  it  had  risen  to  a  sort  of 
hght-headed  certainty.  Resuming  his  symboHc 
taps,  he  signalled  to  his  friend,  "  You  scarcely  realise 
how  poetic  my  intuition  is.  It  has  that  sudden 
quality  we  sometimes  feel  in  the  coming  of  spring." 

He  then  studied  the  answer  on  his  friend's  fingers. 
The  answer  was,  "  Go  to  hell !  " 

The  Professor  then  resumed  his  merely  verbal 
monologue  addressed  to  the  Doctor. 

**  Perhaps  I  should  rather  say,"  said  Syme  on  his 
fingers,  "  that  it  resembles  that  sudden  smell  of  the 
sea  which  may  be  found  in  the  heart  of  lush  woods." 

His  companion  disdained  to  reply. 

"  Or  yet  again,"  tapped  Syme,  "  it  is  positive,  as 
is  the  passionate  red  hair  of  a  beautiful  woman." 

The  Professor  was  continuing  his  speech,  but  in 
the  middle  of  it  Syme  decided  to  act.  He  leant 
across  the  table,  and  said  in  a  voice  that  could  not 
be  neglected  — 

"  Dr.  Bull !  " 

The  Doctor's  sleek  and  smiling  head  did  not 
move,  but  they  could  have  sworn  that  under  his 
dark  glasses  his  eyes  darted  towards  Syme. 

"  Dr.  Bull,"  said  Syme,  in  a  voice  peculiarly 
precise  and  courteous,  "  would  you  do  me  a  small 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  147 

favour?  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  take  off  your 
spectacles  ?  " 

The  Professor  swung  round  on  his  scat,  and  stared 
at  Syme  with  a  sort  of  frozen  fury  of  astonishment. 
Syme,  like  a  man  who  has  thrown  his  life  and  for- 
tune on  the  table,  leaned  forward  with  a  fiery  face. 
The  Doctor  did  not  move. 

For  a  few  seconds  there  was  a  silence  in  which 
one  could  hear  a  pin  dro[),  split  once  by  the  single 
hoot  of  a  distant  steamer  on  the  Thames.  Then 
Dr.  Bull  rose  slowly,  still  smiling,  and  took  off  his 
spectacles. 

Syme  sprang  to  his  feet,  stepping  backwards  a 
little,  like  a  chemical  lecturer  from  a  successful  ex- 
plosion. His  eyes  were  like  stars,  and  for  an  instant 
he  could  only  point  without  speaking. 

The  Professor  had  also  started  to  his  feet,  forget- 
ful of  his  supposed  paralysis.  I  Ic  leant  on  the  back 
of  the  chair  and  stared  doubtfully  at  Dr.  Hull,  as  if 
the  Doctor  had  been  turned  into  a  toad  before  his 
eyes.  And  indeed  it  was  almost  as  great  a  trans- 
formation scene. 

The  two  detectives  saw  sitting  in  the  chair  before 
them  a  vcr)-  boyish-looking  young  man,  with  very 
frank  and  happy  ha7:el  eyes,  an  open  expression, 
cockney   clothes  like  those  of  a  city  clerk,  and  an 


148       THE  MAN^WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

unquestionable  breath  about  him  of  being  very 
good  and  rather  commonplace.  The  smile  was 
still  there,  but  it  might  have  been  the  first  smile  of 
a  baby. 

"  I  knew  I  was  a  poet,"  cried  Syme  in  a  sort  of 
ecstasy.  "  I  knew  my  intuition  was  as  infallible  as 
the  Pope.  It  was  the  spectacles  that  did  it !  It  was 
all  the  spectacles  !  Given  those  beastly  black  eyes, 
and  all  the  rest  of  him,  his  health  and  his  jolly  looks, 
made  him  a  live  devil  among  dead  ones." 

"  It  certainly  does  make  a  queer  difference,"  said 
the  Professor  shakily.  "  But  as  regards  the  project 
of  Dr.  Bull " 

"  Project  be  damned  !  "  roared  Syme,  beside  him- 
self. "  Look  at  him  !  Look  at  his  face,  look  at  his 
collar,  look  at  his  blessed  boots !  You  don't  sup- 
pose, do  you,  that  that  thing's  an  anarchist  ?  " 

"  Syme ! "  cried  the  other  in  an  apprehensive 
agony. 

"  Why,  by  God,"  said  Syme,  "  I'll  take  the  risk 
of  that  myself!  Dr.  Bull,  I  am  a  police  officer. 
There's  my  card,"  and  he  flung  down  the  blue  card 
upon  the  table. 

The  Professor  still  feared  that  all  was  lost;  but  he 
was  loyal.  He  pulled  out  his  own  official  card  and 
put  it  beside  his  friend's.     Then  the  third  man  burst 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  149 

out  laughing,  and  for  the  first  time  that  morning 
they  heard  his  voice. 

"  I'm  awfully  glad  you  chaps  have  come  so  early," 
he  said,  with  a  sort  of  schoolboy  flippancy,  "  for  we 
can  all  start  for  France  together.  Yes,  I'm  in  the 
force  right  enough,"  and  he  flicked  a  blue  card 
towards  them  lightly  as  a  matter  of  form. 

Clapping  a  brisk  bowler  on  his  head  and  resuming 
his  goblin  glasses,  the  Doctor  moved  so  quickly 
towards  the  door,  that  the  others  instinctively  fol- 
lowed him.  Syme  seemed  a  little  distrait,  and  as 
he  passed  under  the  doorway  he  suddenly  struck  his 
stick  on  the  stone  passage  so  that  it  rang. 

"  But  Lord  God  Almighty,"  he  cried  out,  "  if  this 
is  all  right,  there  were  more  damned  detectives  than 
there  were  damned  dynamiters  at  the  damned 
Council ! " 

"  We  might  have  fought  easily,"  said  Bull ;  "  we 
were  four  against  three." 

The  Professor  was  descending  the  stairs,  but  his 
voice  came  up  from  below, 

"  No,"  said  the  voice,  "  we  were  not  four  against 
three — we  were  not  so  lucky.  We  were  four 
against  One." 

The  others  went  down  the  stairs  in  silence. 

The  young    man   called  Bull,  with   an  innocent 


150       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

courtesy  characteristic  of  him,  insisted  on  going  last 
until  they  reached  the  street;  but  there  his  own 
robust  rapidity  asserted  itself  unconsciously,  and  he 
walked  quickly  on  ahead  towards  a  railway  inquiry 
office,  talking  to  the  others  over  his  shoulder. 

"  It  is  jolly  to  get  some  pals,"  he  said.  "  I've 
been  half  dead  with  the  jumps,  being  quite  alone. 
I  nearly  flung  my  arms  round  Gogol  and  embraced 
him,  which  would  have  been  imprudent.  I  hope 
you  won't  despise  me  for  having  been  in  a  blue 
funk." 

"  All  the  blue  devils  in  blue  hell,"  said  Syme, 
"  contributed  to  my  blue  funk !  But  the  worst 
devil  was  you  and  your  infernal  goggles." 

The  young  man  laughed  delightedly. 

"  Wasn't  it  a  rag  ?  "  he  said.  "  Such  a  simple 
idea — not  my  own.  I  haven't  got  the  brains.  You 
see,  I  wanted  to  go  into  the  detective  service,  espe- 
cially the  anti-dynamite  business.  But  for  that 
purpose  they  wanted  some  one  to  dress  up  as  a 
dynamiter ;  and  they  all  swore  by  blazes  that  I 
could  never  look  like  a  dynamiter.  They  said  my 
very  walk  was  respectable,  and  that  seen  from 
behind  I  looked  like  the  British  Constitution. 
They  said  I  looked  too  healthy  and  too  optimistic, 
and  too  reliable  and  benevolent ;  they  called  me  all 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  151 

sorts  of  names  at  Scotland  Yard.  They  said  that  if 
I  had  been  a  criminal,  I  might  have  made  my 
fortune  by  looking  so  like  an  honest  man ;  but  as  I 
had  the  misfortune  to  be  an  honest  man,  there  was 
not  even  the  remotest  chance  of  my  assisting  them 
by  ever  looking  hke  a  criminal.  But  at  last  I  was 
brought  before  some  old  josser  who  was  high  up  in 
the  force,  and  who  seemed  to  have  no  end  of  a 
head  on  his  shoulders.  And  there  the  others  all 
talked  hopelessly.  One  asked  whether  a  bushy 
beard  would  hide  my  nice  smile ;  another  said  that 
if  they  blacked  my  face  I  might  look  like  a  negro 
anarchist ;  but  this  old  chap  chipped  in  with  a  most 
extraordinary  remark,  *  A  pair  of  smoked  spec- 
tacles will  do  it,'  he  said  positively,  '  Look  at  him 
now;  he  looks  like  an  angelic  office  boy.  Put  him 
on  a  pair  of  smoked  spectacles,  and  children  will 
scream  at  the  sight  of  him.'  And  so  it  was,  by 
George !  When  once  my  eyes  were  covered  all  the 
rest,  smile  and  big  shoulders  and  short  hair,  made 
me  look  a  perfect  little  devil.  As  I  say,  it  was 
simple  enough  when  it  was  done,  like  miracles  ;  but 
that  wasn't  the  really  miraculous  part  of  it.  There 
was  one  really  staggering  thing  about  the  business, 
and  my  head  still  turns  at  it." 
"  What  was  that  ?  "  asked  Syme. 


152        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  answered  the  man  in  spectacles. 
*'  This  big  pot  in  the  police  who  sized  me  up  so  that 
he  knew  how  the  goggles  would  go  with  my  hair 
and  socks — by  God,  he  never  saw  me  at  all ! " 

Syme's  eyes  suddenly  flashed  on  him. 

"  How  was  that  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  thought  you 
talked  to  him." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Bull  brightly ;  "  but  we  talked 
in  a  pitch-dark  room  like  a  coal  cellar.  There,  you 
would  never  have  guessed  that." 

"  I  could  not  have  conceived  it,"  said  Syme 
gravely. 

"  It  is  indeed  a  new  idea,"  said  the  Professor. 

Their  new  ally  was  in  practical  matters  a  whirl- 
wind. At  the  inquiry  office  he  asked  with  business- 
like brevity  about  the  trains  for  Dover.  Having  got 
his  information,  he  bundled  the  company  into  a  cab, 
and  put  them  and  himself  inside  a  railway  carriage 
before  they  had  properly  realised  the  breathless 
process.  They  were  already  on  the  Calais  boat 
before  conversation  flowed  freely. 

"  I  had  already  arranged,"  he  explained,  "  to  go 
to  France  for  my  lunch  ;  but  I  am  delighted  to  have 
some  one  to  lunch  with  me.  You  see,  I  had  to 
send  that  beast,  the  Marquis,  over  with  his  bomb, 
because  the  President  had  his  eye  on  me,  though 


'      THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  153 

God  knows  how.  I'll  tell  you  the  stury  some  day. 
It  was  perfectly  choking.  Whenever  I  tried  tu  slip 
out  of  it  I  saw  the  President  somewhere,  smiling 
out  of  the  bow-window  of  a  club  or  taking  off 
his  hat  to  me  from  the  top  of  an  omnibus.  I 
tell  you,  you  can  say  what  you  like,  that  fellow 
sold  himself  to  the  devil ;  he  can  be  in  six  places  at 
once." 

"  So  you  sent  the  Marquis  off,  I  understand," 
asked  the  Professor.  "  Was  it  long  ago  ?  Shall 
we  be  in  time  to  catch  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  new  guide,  "  I've  timed  it 
all.     He'll  still  be  at  Calais  when  we  arrive." 

"  But  when  we  do  catch  him  at  Calais,"  said  the 
Professor,  "  what  are  we  going  to  do  ?  " 

At  this  question  the  countenance  of  Dr.  Bull 
fell  for  the  first  time.  He  reflected  a  little,  and 
then  said — ■ 

"  Theoretically,  I  suppose,  we  ought  to  call  the 
pohce." 

"  Not  I,"  said  Syme.  "  Theoretically  I  ought  to 
drown  myself  first.  I  promised  a  poor  fellow,  who 
was  a  real  modern  pessimist,  on  my  word  of  honour 
not  to  tell  the  police.  I'm  no  hand  at  casuistry,  but 
I  can't  break  my  word  to  a  modern  pessimist.  It's 
like  breaking  one's  word  to  a  child." 


154       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  I'm  in  the  same  boat,"  said  the  Professor.  "  I 
tried  to  tell  the  police  and  I  couldn't,  because  of 
some  silly  oath  I  took.  You  see,  when  I  was  an 
actor  I  was  a  sort  of  all-round  beast.  Perjury  or 
treason  is  the  only  crime  I  haven't  committed.  If  I 
did  that  I  shouldn't  know  the  difference  between 
right  and  wrong." 

"  I've  been  through  all  that,"  said  Dr.  Bull,  "  and 
I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  gave  my  promise  to  the 
Secretary — you  know  him,  man  who  smiles  upside 
down.  My  friends,  that  man  is  the  most  utterly 
unhappy  man  that  was  ever  human.  It  may  be  his 
digestion,  or  his  conscience,  or  his  nerves,  or  his 
philosophy  of  the  universe,  but  he's  damned,  he's  in 
hell !  Well,  I  can't  turn  on  a  man  like  that,  and 
hunt  him  down.  It's  like  whipping  a  leper.  I  may 
be  mad,  but  that's  how  I  feel ;  and  there's  jolly  well 
the  end  of  it." 

"  I  don't  think  you're  mad,"  said  Syme.  "  I  knew 
you  would  decide  like  that  when  first  you " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Dr.  Bull. 

"  When  first  you  took  off  your  spectacles." 

Dr.  Bull  smiled  a  httle,  and  strolled  across  the 
deck  to  look  at  the  sunlit  sea.  Then  he  strolled 
back  again,  kicking  his  heels  carelessly,  and  a  com- 
panionable silence  fell  between  the  three  men. 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  155 

"  Well,"  said  Symc,  "  it  seems  that  we  have  all 
the  same  kind  of  morality  or  immorality,  so  we  had 
better  face  the  fact  that  comes  of  it." 

"  Yes,"  assented  the  Professor, "  you're  quite  right ; 
and  we  must  hurry  up,  for  I  can  see  the  Grey  Nose 
standing  out  from  France." 

"  The  fact  that  comes  of  it,"  said  Syme  seriously, 
"  is  this,  that  we  three  are  alone  on  this  planet. 
Gogol  has  gone,  God  knows  where;  perhaps  the 
President  has  smashed  him  like  a  fly.  On  the 
Council  we  are  three  men  against  three,  like  the 
Romans  who  held  the  bridge.  But  we  are  worse 
off  than  that,  first  because  they  can  appeal  to  their 
organisation  and  we  cannot  appeal  to  ours,  and  sec- 
ond because " 

"  Because  one  of  those  other  three  men,"  said  the 
Professor,  "  is  not  a  man." 

Syme  nodded  and  was  silent  for  a  second  or  two, 
then  he  said  — 

"  My  idea  is  this.  We  must  do  something  to 
keep  the  Marquis  in  Calais  till  to-morrow  midday. 
I  have  turned  over  twenty  schemes  in  my  head. 
We  cannot  denounce  him  as  a  dynamiter;  that  is 
agreed.  We  cannot  get  him  detained  on  some 
trivial  charge,  for  we  should  have  to  appear ;  he 
knows  us,  and  he  would  smell  a  rat.     We  cannot 


156       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

pretend  to  keep  him  on  anarchist  business ;  he  might 
swallow  much  in  that  way,  but  not  the  notion  of 
stopping  in  Calais  while  the  Czar  went  safely  through 
Paris.  We  might  try  to  kidnap  him,  and  lock  him 
up  ourselves ;  but  he  is  a  well-known  man  here. 
He  has  a  whole  body-guard  of  friends ;  he  is  very 
strong  and  brave,  and  the  event  is  doubtful.  The 
only  thing  I  can  see  to  do  is  actually  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  very  things  that  are  in  the  Marquis's 
favour.  I  am  going  to  profit  by  the  fact  that  he  is 
a  highly  respected  nobleman.  I  am  going  to  profit 
by  the  fact  that  he  has  many  friends  and  moves  in 
the  best  society." 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  talking  about  ?  "  asked 
the  Professor. 

"  The  Symes  are  first  mentioned  in  the  fourteenth 
century,"  said  Syme ;  "  but  there  is  a  tradition  that 
one  of  them  rode  behind  Bruce  at  Bannockburn. 
Since  1350  the  tree  is  quite  clear." 

"  He's  gone  off  his  head,"  said  the  little  Doctor, 
staring. 

"  Our  bearings,"  continued  Syme  calmly,  "  are 
'  argent  a  chevron  gules  charged  with  three  cross 
crosslets  of  the  field.'     The  motto  varies." 

The  Professor  seized  Syme  roughly  by  the  waist- 
coat. 


THE  MAN  IN  SPECTACLES  157 

"  We  arc  just  inshore,"  he  said.  "  Arc  you  sea- 
sick or  joking  in  the  wrong  place  ?  " 

"  My  remarks  are  almost  painfully  practical," 
answered  Syme,  in  an  unhurried  manner.  "  The 
house  of  St.  Eustache  also  is  very  ancient.  The 
Marquis  cannot  deny  that  he  is  a  gentleman.  He 
cannot  deny  that  I  am  a  gentleman.  And  in  order 
to  put  the  matter  of  my  social  position  quite  beyond 
a  doubt,  I  propose  at  the  earliest  opportunity  to 
knock  his  hat  off.     But  here  we  are  in  the  harbour." 

They  went  on  shore  under  the  strong  sun  in  a 
501 1  of  daze.  Syme,  who  had  now  taken  the  lead 
fls  Bull  had  taken  it  in  London,  led  them  along  a 
kind  of  marine  parade  until  he  came  to  some  cafes, 
embowered  in  a  bulk  of  greenery  and  overlooking 
the  sea.  As  he  went  before  them  his  step  was 
slightly  swaggering,  and  he  swung  his  stick  like  a 
sword.  He  was  making  apparently  for  the  extreme 
end  of  the  line  of  cafes,  but  he  stopped  abruptly. 
With  a  sharp  gesture  he  motioned  them  to  silence, 
but  he  pointed  with  one  gloved  finger  to  a  cafe 
table  under  a  bank  of  flowering  foliage  at  which  sat 
the  Marquis  dc  St.  Eustache,  his  teeth  shining  in 
his  thick,  black  beard,  and  his  bold,  brown  face 
shadowed  ^y  a  light  yellow  straw  hat  and  outlined 
against  the  violet  sea. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    DUEL 

Syme  sat  down  at  a  cafe  table  with  his  com- 
panions, his  blue  eyes  sparkling  like  the  bright  sea 
below,  and  ordered  a  bottle  of  Saumur  with  a 
pleased  impatience.  He  was  for  some  reason  in  a 
condition  of  curious  hilarity.  His  spirits  were  al- 
ready unnaturally  high ;  they  rose  as  the  Saumur 
sank,  and  in  half  an  hour  his  talk  was  a  torrent  of 
nonsense.  He  professed  to  be  making  out  a  plan 
of  the  conversation  which  was  going  to  ensue  be- 
tween himself  and  the  deadly  Marquis.  He  jotted 
it  down  wildly  with  a  pencil.  It  was  arranged  like 
a  printed  catechism,  with  questions  and  answers, 
and  was  delivered  with  an  extraordinary  rapidity 
of  utterance. 

"  I  shall  approach.  Before  taking  off  his  hat,  I 
shall  take  off  my  own.  I  shall  say,  *  The  Marquis 
de  Saint  Eustache,  I  believe.'  He  will  say,  *  The 
celebrated  Mr,  Syme,  I  presume.'  He  will  say  in 
the  most  exquisite  French,  'How  are  you?'  I 
shall  reply  in  the  most  exquisite  Cockney,  *  Oh, 

just  the  Syme '  " 

158 


THE  DUEL  159 

"Oh,  shut  it!"  said  the  man  in  spectacles. 
"  Pull  yourself  together,  and  chuck  away  that  bit 
of  paper.     What  are  you  really  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  But  it  was  a  lovely  catechism,"  said  Syme 
pathetically.  "  Do  let  me  read  it  you.  It  has  only 
forty-three  questions  and  answers,  and  some  of  the 
Marquis's  answers  are  wonderfully  witty.  I  like  to 
be  just  to  my  enemy." 

"  But  what's  the  good  of  it  all  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Bull 
in  exasperation. 

"  It  leads  up  to  my  challenge,  don't  you  see," 
said  Syme,  beaming.  "  When  the  Marquis  has 
given  the  thirty-ninth  reply,  which  runs " 

"  Has  it  by  any  chance  occurred  to  you,"  asked 
the  Professor,  with  a  ponderous  simplicity,  "  that 
the  Marquis  may  not  say  all  the  forty-three  things 
you  have  put  down  for  him  ?  In  that  case,  I  un- 
derstand, your  own  epigrams  may  appear  some- 
what more  forced." 

Syme  struck  the  table  with  a  radiant  face. 

"  Why,  how  true  that  is,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
never  thought  of  it.  Sir,  you  have  an  in- 
tellect beyond  the  common.  You  will  make  a 
name." 

"Oh,  you're  as  drunk  as  an  owl!"  said  the 
Doctor. 


i6o       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  It  only  remains,"  continued  Syme  quite  unper- 
turbed, "  to  adopt  some  other  method  of  breaking 
the  ice  (if  I  may  so  express  it)  between  myself  and 
the  man  I  wish  to  kill.  And  since  the  course  of  a 
dialogue  cannot  be  predicted  by  one  of  its  parties 
alone  (as  you  have  pointed  out  with  such  recondite 
acumen),  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  I  suppose,  is 
for  the  one  party,  as  far  as  possible,  to  do  all  the 
dialogue  by  himself.  And  so  I  will,  by  George  ! " 
And  he  stood  up  suddenly,  his  yellow  hair  blowing 
in  the  slight  sea  breeze. 

A  band  was  playing  in  a  cafe  chantant  hidden 
somewhere  among  the  trees,  and  a  woman  had  just 
stopped  singing.  On  Syme's  heated  head  the  bray 
of  the  brass  band  seemed  like  the  jar  and  jingle  of 
that  barrel-organ  in  Leicester  Square,  to  the  tune 
of  which  he  had  once  stood  up  to  die.  He  looked 
across  to  the  little  table  where  the  Marquis  sat. 
The  man  had  two  companions  now,  solemn  French- 
men in  frock-coats  and  silk  hats,  one  of  them  with 
the  red  rosette  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  evidently 
people  of  a  solid  social  position.  Beside  these 
black,  cylindrical  costumes,  the  Marquis,  in  his 
loose  straw  hat  and  light  spring  clothes,  looked 
Bohemian  and  even  barbaric;  but  he  looked  the 
Marquis.     Indeed,  one  might  say  that  he  looked 


THE  DUEL  i6i 

the  king,  with  his  animal  elegance,  his  scornful 
eyes,  and  his  proud  head  lifted  against  the  purple 
sea.  But  he  was  no  Christian  king,  at  any  rate; 
he  was,  rather,  some  swarthy  despot,  half  Greek, 
half  Asiatic,  who  in  the  days  when  slavery  seemed 
natural  looked  down  on  the  Mediterranean,  on  his 
galley  and  his  groaning  slaves.  Just  so,  Syme 
thought,  would  the  brown-gold  face  of  such  a 
tyrant  have  shown  against  the  dark  green  olives 
and  the  burning  blue. 

"  Are  you  going  to  address  the  meeting  ?  "  asked 
the  Professor  peevishly,  seeing  that  Syme  still  stood 
up  without  moving. 

Syme  drained  his  last  glass  of  sparkling  wine. 

"  I  am,"  he  said,  pointing  across  to  the  Marquis 
and  his  companions,  "  that  meeting.  That  meeting 
displeases  me.  I  am  going  to  pull  that  meeting's 
great  ugly,  mahogany-coloured  nose." 

He  stepped  across  swiftly,  if  not  quite  steadily. 
The  Marquis,  seeing  him,  arched  his  black  Assyrian 
eyebrows  in  surprise,  but  smiled  politely. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Syme,  I  think,"  he  said. 

Syme  bowed. 

"  And  you  are  the  Marquis  dc  Saint  Eustache," 
he  said  gracefully.  "  Permit  me  to  pull  your 
nose." 


1 62        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

He  leant  over  to  do  so,  but  the  Marquis  started 
backwards,  upsetting  his  chair,  and  the  two  men  in 
top  hats  held  Syme  back  by  the  shoulders. 

"  This  man  has  insulted  me ! "  said  Syme,  with 
gestures  of  explanation. 

"  Insulted  you  ?  "  cried  the  gentleman  with  the 
red  rosette,  "  when  ?  " 

"  Oh,  just  now,"  said  Syme  recklessly.  "  He 
insulted  my  mother." 

"  Insulted  your  mother  !  "  exclaimed  the  gentle- 
man incredulously. 

"  Well,  anyhow,"  said  Syme,  conceding  a  point, 
"  my  aunt." 

"  But  how  can  the  Marquis  have  insulted  your 
aunt  just  now?"  said  the  second  gentleman  with 
some  legitimate  wonder.  "  He  has  been  sitting  here 
all  the  time." 

"  Ah,  it  was  what  he  said  ! "  said  Syme  darkly. 

"  I  said  nothing  at  all,"  said  the  Marquis, "  except 
something  about  the  band.  I  only  said  that  I  hked 
Wagner  played  well." 

"  It  was  an  allusion  to  my  family,"  said  Syme 
firmly.  '•  My  aunt  played  Wagner  badly.  It  was 
a  painful  subject.  We  are  always  being  insulted 
about  it." 

"  This     seems    most    extraordinary,"    said    the 


THE  DUEL  163 

gentleman  who  was  dicori,  looking  doubtfully  at 
the  Marquis. 

"  Oh,  I  assure  you,"  said  Syme  earnestly,  "  the 
whole  of  your  conversation  was  simply  packed  with 
sinister  allusions  to  my  aunt's  weaknesses." 

"  This  is  nonsense  !  "  said  the  second  gentleman. 
"  I  for  one  have  said  nothing  for  half  an  hour  except 
that  I  liked  the  singing  of  that  girl  with  black 
hair." 

♦'  Well,  there  you  are  again  !  "  said  Syme  indig- 
nantly.    "  My  aunt's  was  red." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  other,  "  that  you  are 
simply  seeking  a  pretext  to  insult  the  Marquis." 

"  By  George  !  "  said  Syme,  facing  round  and  look- 
ing at  him,  "  what  a  clever  chap  you  are  !  " 

The  Marquis  started  up  with  eyes  flaming  like  a 
tiger's. 

•'  Seeking  a  quarrel  with  me  !  "  he  cried.  "  Seek- 
ing a  fight  witii  me  !  By  God  !  there  was  never  a 
man  who  had  to  seek  long.  These  gentlemen  will 
perhaps  act  for  me.  There  are  still  four  hours  of 
daylight.     Let  us  fight  this  evening." 

Syme  bowed  with  a  quite  beautiful  gracious- 
ness. 

"  Marquis,"  he  said,  "  your  action  is  worthy  of 
your  fame  and  blood.     Permit  me  to  consult  for  a 


i64       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

moment  with  the  gentlemen  in  whose  hands  I  shall 
place  myself." 

In  three  long  strides  he  rejoined  his  companions, 
and  they,  who  had  seen  his  champagne-inspired 
attack  and  listened  to  his  idiotic  explanations,  were 
quite  startled  at  the  look  of  him.  For  now  that  he 
came  back  to  them  he  was  quite  sober,  a  little  pale, 
and  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice  of  passionate  practi- 
cality. 

"  I  have  done  it,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  I  have 
fixed  a  fight  on  the  beast.  But  look  here,  and  listen 
carefully.  There  is  no  time  for  talk.  You  are  my 
seconds,  and  everything  must  come  from  you. 
Now  you  must  insist,  and  insist  absolutely,  on  the 
duel  coming  off  after  seven  to-morrow,  so  as  to  give 
me  the  chance  of  preventing  him  from  catching  the 
7.45  for  Paris.  If  he  misses  that  he  misses  his 
crime.  He  can't  refuse  to  meet  you  on  such  a  small 
point  of  time  and  place.  But  this  is  what  he  will  do. 
He  will  choose  a  field  somewhere  near  a  wayside 
station,  where  he  can  pick  up  the  train.  He  is  a 
very  good  swordsman,  and  he  will  trust  to  killing 
me  in  time  to  'catch  it.  But  I  can  fence  well  too, 
and  I  think  I  can  keep  him  in  play,  at  any  rate, 
until  the  train  is  lost.  Then  perhaps  he  may  kill 
me    to    console    his    feelings.     You    understand  ? 


THE  DUEL  165 

Very  well  then,  let  me  introduce  you  to  some 
charming  friends  of  mine,"  and  leading  them  quickly 
across  the  parade,  he  presented  them  to  the 
Marquis's  seconds  by  two  very  aristocratic  names 
of  which  they  had  not  previously  heard. 

Syme  was  subject  to  spasms  of  singular  common 
sense,  not  otherwise  a  part  of  his  character.  They 
were  (as  he  said  of  his  impulse  about  the  spectacles) 
poetic  intuitions,  and  they  sometimes  rose  to  the 
exaltation  of  prophecy. 

He  had  correctly  calculated  in  this  case  the  poHcy 
of  his  opponent.  When  the  Marquis  was  informed 
by  his  seconds  that  Syme  could  only  fight  in  the 
morning,  he  must  fully  have  realised  that  an  ob- 
stacle had  suddenly  arisen  between  him  and  his 
bomb-throwing  business  in  the  capital.  Naturally 
he  could  not  explain  this  objection  to  his  friends,  so 
he  chose  the  course  which  Syme  had  predicted. 
He  induced  his  seconds  to  settle  on  a  small  meadow 
not  far  from  the  railway,  and  he  trusted  to  the 
fatality  of  the  first  engagement. 

When  he  came  down  very  coolly  to  the  field  of 
honour,  no  one  could  have  guessed  that  he  had  any 
anxiety  about  a  journey;  his  hands  were  in  his 
pockets,  his  straw  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his 
handsome   face  brazen   in   the  sun.     But   it  might 


1 66        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

have  struck  a  stranger  as  odd  that  there  appeared  in 
his  train,  not  only  his  seconds  carrying  the  sword- 
case,  but  two  of  his  servants  carrying  a  portman- 
teau and  a  luncheon  basket. 

Early  as  was  the  hour,  the  sun  soaked  everything 
in  warmth,  and  Syme  was  vaguely  surprised  to  see 
so  many  spring  flowers  burning  gold  and  silver  in 
the  tall  grass  in  which  the  whole  company  stood 
almost  knee-deep. 

With  the  exception  of  the  Marquis,  all  the  men 
were  in  sombre  and  solemn  morning-dress,  with 
hats  like  black  chimney-pots ;  the  little  Doctor  es- 
pecially, with  the  addition  of  his  black  spectacles, 
looked  like  an  undertaker  in  a  farce.  Syme  could 
not  help  feeling  a  comic  contrast  between  this  fune- 
real church  parade  of  apparel  and  the  rich  and  ghs- 
tening  meadow,  growing  wild  flowers  everywhere. 
But,  indeed,  this  comic  contrast  between  the  yellow 
blossoms  and  the  black  hats  was  but  a  symbol  of 
the  tragic  contrast  between  the  yellow  blossoms  and 
the  black  business.  On  his  right  was  a  little  wood  ; 
far  away  to  his  left  lay  the  long  curve  of  the  rail- 
way line,  which  he  was,  so  to  speak,  guarding  from 
the  Marquis,  whose  goal  and  escape  it  was.  In 
front  of  him,  behind  the  black  group  of  his  oppo- 
nents, he    could   see,  like  a  tinted  cloud,  a  small 


THE  DUEL  167 

almond  bush  in  flower  against  the  faint  Hne  of  the 
sea. 

The  member  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  whose 
name  it  seemed  was  Colonel  Ducroix,  approached 
the  Professor  and  Dr.  Bull  with  great  politeness,  and 
suggested  that  the  play  should  terminate  witli  tlie 
first  considerable  hurt. 

Dr.  Bull,  however,  having  been  carefully  coached 
by  Syme  upon  this  point  of  policy,  insisted,  with 
great  dignity  and  in  very  bad  I' rench,  that  it  should 
continue  until  one  of  the  combatants  was  disabled. 
Syme  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  could  avoid 
disabling  the  Marquis  and  prevent  the  Marquis 
from  disabling  him  for  at  least  twenty  minutes. 
In  twenty  minutes  the  Paris  train  would  have 
gone  by. 

"  To  a  man  of  the  well-known  skill  and  valour  of 
Monsieur  de  St.  Eustache,"  said  the  Professor  sol- 
emnly, "  it  must  be  a  matter  of  indifTcrencc  which 
method  is  adopted,  and  our  principal  has  strong 
reasons  for  demanding  the  longer  encounter,  reasons 
the  delicacy  of  which  prevent  me  from  being  ex- 
plicit, but  for  the  just  and  honourable  nature  of 
which  I  can " 

"  Pestc  !"  broke  from  the  Marquis  behind,  whose 
face  had  suddenly  darkened,  "  let  us  stop  talking 


i68        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

and  begin,"  and  he  slashed  off  the  head  of  a  tall 
flower  with  his  stick. 

Syme  understood  his  rude  impatience,  and  in- 
stinctively looked  over  his  shoulder  to  see  whether 
the  train  was  coming  in  sight.  But  there  was  no 
smoke  on  the  horizon. 

Colonel  Ducroix  knelt  down  and  unlocked  the 
case,  taking  out  a  pair  of  twin  swords,  which  took 
the  sunlight  and  turned  to  two  streaks  of  white  fire. 
He  offered  one  to  the  Marquis,  who  snatched  it 
without  ceremony,  and  another  to  Syme,  who  took 
it,  bent  it,  and  poised  it  with  as  much  delay  as  was 
consistent  with  dignity.  Then  the  Colonel  took  out 
another  pair  of  blades,  and  taking  one  himself  and 
giving  another  to  Dr.  Bull,  proceeded  to  place  the 
men. 

Both  combatants  had  thrown  off  their  coats  and 
waistcoats,  and  stood  sword  in  hand.  The  seconds 
stood  on  each  side  of  the  Hne  of  fight  with  drawn 
swords  also,  but  still  sombre  in  their  dark  frock- 
coats  and  hats.  The  principals  saluted.  The 
Colonel  said  quietly,  "  Engage  !  "  and  the  two  blades 
touched  and  tingled. 

When  the  jar  of  the  joined  iron  ran  up  Syme's 
arm,  all  the  fantastic  fears  that  have  been  the  sub- 
ject of  this  story  fell  from  him  like  dreams  from  a 


THE  DUEL  169 

man  waking  up  in  bed.  He  remembered  them 
clearly  and  in  order  as  mere  delusions  of  the  nerves 
— how  the  fear  of  the  Professor  had  been  the  fear  of 
the  tyrannic  accidents  of  nightmare,  and  how  the 
fear  of  the  Doctor  had  been  the  fear  of  the  airless 
vacuum  of  science.  The  first  was  the  old  fear  that 
any  miracle  might  happen,  the  second  the  more 
hopeless  modern  fear  that  no  miracle  can  ever  hap- 
pen. But  he  saw  that  these  fears  were  fancies,  for 
he  found  himself  in  the  presence  of  the  great  fact 
of  the  fear  of  death,  with  its  coarse  and  pitiless  com- 
mon sense.  He  felt  like  a  man  who  had  dreamed 
all  night  of  falling  over  precipices,  and  had  woke  up 
on  the  morning  when  he  was  to  be  hanged.  For  as 
soon  as  he  had  seen  the  sunlight  run  down  the  chan- 
nel of  his  foe's  foreshortened  blade,  and  as  soon  as 
he  had  felt  the  two  tongues  of  steel  touch,  vibrating 
like  two  living  things,  he  knew  that  his  enemy  was 
a  terrible  fighter,  and  that  probably  his  last  hour 
had  come. 

He  felt  a  strange  and  vivid  value  in  all  the  earth 
around  him,  in  the  grass  under  his  feet ;  he  felt  the 
love  of  life  in  all  living  things.  He  could  almost 
fancy  that  he  heard  the  grass  growing ;  he  could 
almost  fancy  that  even  as  he  stood  fresh  flowers 
were  springing  up  and  breaking  into  blossom  in  the 


I70        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

meadow — flowers  blood-red  and  burning  gold  and 
blue,  fulfilling  the  whole  pageant  of  the  spring. 
And  whenever  his  eyes  strayed  for  a  flash  from  the 
calm,  staring,  hypnotic  eyes  of  the  Marquis,  they 
saw  the  little  tuft  of  almond  tree  against  the  sky- 
line. He  had  the  feeling  that  if  by  some  miracle  he 
escaped  he  would  be  ready  to  sit  forever  before  that 
almond  tree,  desiring  nothing  else  in  the  world. 

But  while  earth  and  sky  and  everything  had  the 
living  beauty  of  a  thing  lost,  the  other  half  of  his 
head  was  as  clear  as  glass,  and  he  was  parrying  his 
enemy's  point  with  a  kind  of  clockwork  skill  of 
which  he  had  hardly  supposed  himself  capable. 
Once  his  enemy's  point  ran  along  his  wrist,  leaving 
a  slight  streak  of  blood,  but  it  either  was  not  noticed 
or  was  tacitly  ignored.  Every  now  and  then  he 
riposted,  and  once  or  twice  he  could  almost  fancy 
that  he  felt  his  point  go  home,  but  as  there  was  no 
blood  on  blade  or  shirt  he  supposed  he  was  mis- 
taken.    Then  came  an  interruption  and  a  change. 

At  the  risk  of  losing  all,  the  Marquis,  interrupting 
his  quiet  stare,  flashed  one  glance  over  his  shoulder 
at  the  line  of  railway  on  his  right.  Then  he  turned 
on  Syme  a  face  transfigured  to  that  of  a  fiend,  and 
began  to  fight  as  if  with  twenty  weapons.  The 
attack  came  so  fast  and  furious,  that  the  one  shining 


THE  DUP:L  171 

sword  seemed  a  shower  of  shining  arrows.  Symc 
had  no  chance  to  look  at  the  railway ;  but  also  he 
had  no  need.  He  could  guess  the  reason  of  the 
Marquis's  sudden  madness  of  battle — the  Paris  train 
was  in  sight. 

But  the  Marquis's  morbid  energy  overreached 
itself.  Twice  Syme,  parrying,  knocked  his  oppo- 
nent's point  far  out  of  the  fighting  circle ;  and  the 
third  time  his  riposte  was  so  rapid,  that  there  was 
no  doubt  about  the  hit  this  time.  Syme's  sword 
actually  bent  under  the  weight  of  the  Marquis's 
body,  which  it  had  pierced.  Syme  was  as  certain 
that  he  had  stuck  his  blade  into  his  enemy  as  a 
gardener  that  he  has  stuck  his  spade  into  the 
ground.  Yet  the  Marquis  sprang  back  from  the 
stroke  without  a  stagger,  and  Syme  stood  staring 
at  his  own  sword-point  like  an  idiot.  There  was  no 
blood  on  it  at  all. 

There  was  an  instant  of  rigid  silence,  and  then 
Syme  in  his  turn  fell  furiously  on  the  other,  filled 
with  a  flaming  curiosity.  The  Marquis  was  prob- 
ably, in  a  general  sense,  a  better  fencer  than  he,  as 
he  iiad  surmised  at  the  beginning,  but  at  tiie  mo- 
ment the  Marquis  seemed  distraught  and  at  a  dis- 
advantage. He  fought  wildly  and  even  weakly,  and 
he  constantly  looked  away  at  the  railway  line,  almost 


172        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

as  if  he  feared  the  train  more  than  the  pointed  steel 
Syme,  on  the  other  hand,  fought  fiercely  but  still 
carefully,  in  an  intellectual  fury,  eager  to  solve  the 
riddle  of  his  own  bloodless  sword.  For  this  pur- 
pose, he  aimed  less  at  the  Marquis's  body,  and 
more  at  his  throat  and  head.  A  minute  and  a  half 
afterwards  he  felt  his  point  enter  the  man's  neck 
below  the  jaw.  It  came  out  clean.  Half  mad,  he 
thrust  again,  and  made  what  should  have  been  a 
bloody  scar  on  the  Marquis's  cheek.  But  there  was 
no  scar. 

For  one  moment  the  heaven  of  Syme  again  grew 
black  with  supernatural  terrors.  Surely  the  man 
had  a  charmed  life.  But  this  new  spiritual  dread 
was  a  more  awful  thing  than  had  been  the  mere 
spiritual  topsy-turvydom  symbolised  by  the  para- 
lytic who  pursued  him.  The  Professor  was  only  a 
goblin ;  this  man  was  a  devil — perhaps  he  was  the 
Devil !  Anyhow,  this  was  certain,  that  three  times 
had  a  human  sword  been  driven  into  him  and  made 
no  mark.  When  Syme  had  that  thought  he  drew 
himself  up,  and  all  that  was  good  in  him  sang  high 
up  in  the  air  as  a  high  wind  sings  in  the  trees.  He 
thought  of  all  the  human  things  in  his  story — of  the 
Chinese  lanterns  in  Saffron  Park,  of  the  girl's  red 
hair   in   the   garden,  of  the   honest,  beer-swilling 


THE  DUEL  173 

sailors  down  by  the  dock,  of  his  loyal  companions 
standing  by.  Perhaps  he  had  been  chosen  as  a 
champion  of  all  these  fresh  and  kindly  things  to 
cross  swords  with  the  enemy  of  all  creation.  "  After 
all,"  he  said  to  himself,  '•  I  am  more  than  a  devil ;  I 
am  a  man.  I  can  do  the  one  thing  which  Satan 
himself  cannot  do — I  can  die,"  and  as  the  word  went 
through  his  head,  he  heard  a  faint  and  far-off  hoot, 
which  would  soon  be  the  roar  of  the  Paris  train. 

He  fell  to  fighting  again  with  a  supernatural 
levity,  like  a  Mohammedan  panting  for  Paradise. 
As  the  train  came  nearer  and  nearer  he  fancied  he 
could  see  people  putting  up  the  floral  arches  in 
Paris;  he  joined  in  the  growing  noise  and  the  glory 
of  the  great  Republic  whose  gate  he  was  guarding 
against  Hell.  His  thoughts  rose  higher  and  higher 
with  the  rising  roar  of  the  train,  which  ended,  as  if 
proudly,  in  a  long  and  piercing  whistle.  The  train 
stopped. 

Suddenly,  to  the  astonishment  of  every  one,  the 
Marquis  sprang  back  quite  out  of  sword  reach  and 
threw  down  his  sword.  The  leap  was  wonderful, 
and  not  the  less  wonderful  because  Syme  had 
plunged  his  sword  a  moment  before  into  the  man's 
thigh. 

"  Stop ! "  said  the  Marquis  in  a  voice  that  com- 


174        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

pelled  a  momentary  obedience.  "  I  want  to  say 
something." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  asked  Colonel  Ducroix, 
staring.     "  Has  there  been  foul  play  ?  " 

"  There  has  been  foul  play  somewhere,"  said 
Dr.  Bull,  who  was  a  little  pale.  "  Our  principal 
has  wounded  the  Marquis  four  times  at  least,  and 
he  is  none  the  worse."  j 

The  Marquis  put  up  his  hand  with  a  curious  air 
of  ghastly  patience.  | 

"  Please  let  me  speak,"  he  said.  "  It  is  rather 
important.  Mr.  Syme,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
his  opponent,  "  we  are  fighting  to-day,  if  I  remem- 
ber right,  because  you  expressed  a  wish  (which  I 
thought  irrational)  to  pull  my  nose.  Would  you 
oblige  me  by  pulling  my  nose  now  as  quickly  as 
possible  ?     I  have  to  catch  a  train." 

"  I  protest  that  this  is  most  irregular,"  said  Dr. 
Bull  indignantly. 

"  It  is  certainly  somewhat  opposed  to  precedent," 
said  Colonel  Ducroix,  looking  wistfully  at  his 
principal.  "  There  is,  I  think,  one  case  on  record 
(Captain  Bellegarde  and  the  Baron  Zumpt)  in  which 
the  weapons  were  changed  in  the  middle  of  the  en- 
counter at  the  request  of  one  of  the  combatants. 
But  one  can  hardly  call  one's  nose  a  weapon." 


li 


THE  DUEL  175 

"  Will  you  or  will  you  not  pull  my  nose  ?  "  said 
the  Marquis  in  exasperation.  "  Come,  come,  Mr. 
Syme  !  You  wanted  to  do  it,  do  it !  You  can  have 
no  conception  of  how  important  it  is  to  me. 
Don't  be  so  selfish  !  Pull  my  nose  at  once,  when 
I  ask  you !  "  and  he  bent  slightly  forward  with  a 
fascinating  smile.  The  Paris  train,  panting  and 
I  groaning,  had  grated  into  a  httle  station  behind  the 

neighbouring  hill. 
i  Syme  had  the  feeling  he  had  more  than  once  had 

in  these  adventures — the  sense  that  a  horrible  and 
sublime  wave  lifted  to  heaven  was  just  toppling 
over.  Walking  in  a  world  he  half  understood,  he 
took  two  paces  forward  and  seized  the  Roman  nose 
of  this  remarkable  nobleman.  He  pulled  it  hard, 
and  it  came  off  in  his  hand. 

He  stood  for  some  seconds  with  a  foolish 
solemnity,  with  the  pasteboard  proboscis  still  be- 
tween his  fingers,  looking  at  it,  while  the  sun  and 
the  clouds  and  the  wooded  hills  looked  down  upon 
this  imbecile  scene. 

The  Marquis  broke  the  silence  in  a  loud  and 
cheerful  voice. 

"  If  any  one  has  any  use  for  my  left  eyebrow," 
he  said,  "  he  can  have  it.  Colonel  Ducroix,  do 
accept  my  left  eyebrow !     It's  the  kind  of  thing 


176        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

that  might  come  in  useful  any  day,"  and  he  gravely 
tore  off  one  of  his  swarthy  Assyrian  brows,  bring- 
ing about  half  his  brown  forehead  with  it,  and 
politely  offered  it  to  the  Colonel,  who  stood  crimson 
and  speechless  with  rage. 

"  If  I  had  known,"  he  spluttered,  "  that  I  was 
acting  for  a  poltroon  who  pads  himself  to 
fight " 

"  Oh,  I  know,  I  know !  "  said  the  Marquis,  reck- 
lessly throwing  various  parts  of  himself  right  and 
left  about  the  field.  "  You  are  making  a  mistake ; 
but  it  can't  be  explained  just  now.  I  tell  you  the 
train  has  come  into  the  station  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Bull  fiercely,  "  and  the  train 
shall  go  out  of  the  station.  It  shall  go  out  with- 
out you.  We  know  well  enough  for  what  devil's 
work " 

The  mysterious  Marquis  lifted  his  hands  with  a 
desperate  gesture.  He  was  a  strange  scarecrow, 
standing  there  in  the  sun  with  half  his  old  face 
peeled  off,  and  half  another  face  glaring  and  grin- 
ning from  underneath. 

"  Will  you  drive  me  mad  ? "  he  cried.  "  The 
train " 

"  You  shall  not  go  by  the  train,"  said  Syme 
firmly,  and  grasped  his  sword. 


THE  DUEL  177 

The  wild  figure  turned  towards  Syme,  and 
seemed  to  be  gathering  itself  for  a  sublime  effort 
before  speaking. 

"  You  great  fat,  blasted,  blear-eyed,  blundering, 
thundering,  brainless,  God-forsaken,  doddering, 
damned  fool ! "  he  said  without  taking  breath. 
"  You  great  silly,  pink-faced,  towheaded  turnip ! 
You " 

"  You  shall  not  go  by  this  train,"  repeated  Syme. 

«'  And  why  the  infernal  blazes,"  roared  the  other, 
"  should  I  want  to  go  by  the  train  ?  " 

"We  know  all,"  said  the  Professor  sternly. 
•'  You  are  going  to  Paris  to  throw  a  bomb  !  " 

"  Going  to  Jericho  to  throw  a  Jabberwock ! " 
cried  the  other,  tearing  his  hair,  which  came  off 
easily.  "  Have  you  all  got  softening  of  the  brain, 
that  you  don't  realise  what  I  am?  Did  you  really 
think  I  wanted  to  catch  that  train  ?  Twenty  Paris 
trains  might  go  by  for  me.     Damn  Paris  trains  !  " 

"  Then  what  did  you  care  about  ?  "  began  the 
Professor. 

"What  did  I  care  about?  I  didn't  care  about 
catching  the  train  ;  I  cared  about  whether  the  train 
caught  me,  and  now,  by  God  !  it  has  caught  me." 

"  I  regret  to  inform  you,"  said  Syme  with 
restraint,  "  that  your  remarks  convey  no  imprcs- 


178        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

sion  to  my  mind.  Perhaps  if  you  were  to  remove 
the  remains  of  your  original  forehead  and  some 
portion  of  what  was  once  your  chin,  your  meaning 
would  become  clearer.  Mental  lucidity  fulfils 
itself  in  many  ways.  What  do  you  mean  by 
saying  that  the  train  has  caught  you  ?  It  may 
be  my  literary  fancy,  but  somehow  I  feel  that  it 
ought  to  mean  something." 

"  It  means  everything,"  said  the  other,  "  and  the 
end  of  everything.  Sunday  has  us  now  in  the  hol- 
low of  his  hand." 

"  Us ! "  repeated  the  Professor,  as  if  stupefied. 
"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  us  '  ?" 

"  The  police,  of  course !  "  said  the  Marquis,  and 
tore  off  his  scalp  and  half  his  face. 

The  head  which  emerged  was  the  blonde,  well- 
brushed,  smooth-haired  head  which  is  common  in 
the  English  constabulary,  but  the  face  was  terribly 
pale. 

"  I  am  Inspector  Ratcliffe,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of 
haste  that  verged  on  harshness.  "  My  name  is 
pretty  well  known  to  the  police,  and  I  can  see  well 
enough  that  you  belong  to  them.     But  if  there  is 

any  doubt  about  my  position,  I  have  a  card " 

and  he  began  to  pull  a  blue  card  from  his  pocket. 

The  Professor  gave  a  tired  gesture. 


THE  DUEL  179 

"  Oh,  don't  show  it  us,"  he  said  wearily ;  "  we've 
got  enough  of  them  to  equip  a  paper-chase." 

The  httle  man  named  Bull  had,  like  many  men 
who  seem  to  be  of  a  mere  vivacious  vulgarity,  sud- 
den movements  of  good  taste.  Here  he  certainly 
saved  the  situation.  In  the  midst  of  this  staggering 
transformation  scene  he  stepped  forward  with  all 
the  gravity  and  responsibility  of  a  second,  and  ad- 
dressed the  two  seconds  of  the  Marquis. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  we  all  owe  you  a  serious 
apology ;  but  I  assure  you  that  you  have  not  been 
made  the  victims  of  such  a  low  joke  as  you  imagine, 
or  indeed  of  anything  undignified  in  a  man  of  hon- 
our. You  have  not  wasted  your  time  ;  you  have 
helped  to  save  the  world.  We  are  not  buffoons,  but 
very  desperate  men  at  war  with  a  vast  conspiracy, 
A  secret  society  of  anarchists  is  hunting  us  like 
hares ;  not  such  unfortunate  madmen  as  may  here 
or  there  throw  a  bomb  through  starvation  or  Ger- 
man philosophy,  but  a  rich  and  powerful  and  fanat- 
ical church,  a  church  of  eastern  pessimism,  which 
holds  it  holy  to  destroy  mankind  like  vermin.  How 
hard  they  hunt  us  you  can  gather  from  the  fact  that 
we  are  driven  to  such  disguises  as  those  for  which  I 
apologise,  and  to  such  pranks  as  this  one  by  which 
you  suffer." 


i8o        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

The  younger  second  of  the  Marquis,  a  short  man 
with  a  black  moustache,  bowed  politely,  and  said  — 

"  Of  course,  I  accept  the  apology ;  but  you  will 
in  your  turn  forgive  me  if  I  decline  to  follow  you 
further  into  your  difficulties,  and  permit  myself  to 
say  good-morning  !  The  sight  of  an  acquaintance 
and  distinguished  fellow-townsman  coming  to  pieces 
in  the  open  air  is  unusual,  and,  upon  the  whole, 
sufficient  for  one  day.  Colonel  Ducroix,  I  would  in 
no  way  influence  your  actions,  but  if  you  feel  with 
me  that  our  present  society  is  a  little  abnormal,  I 
am  now  going  to  walk  back  to  the  town." 

Colonel  Ducroix  moved  mechanically,  but  then 
tugged  abruptly  at  his  white  moustache  and  broke 
out  — 

"  No,  by  George !  I  won't.  If  these  gentlemen 
are  really  in  a  mess  with  a  lot  of  low  wreckers  like 
that,  I'll  see  them  through  it.  I  have  fought  for 
France,  and  it  is  hard  U  I  can't  fight  for  civilisation." 

Dr.  Bull  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it,  cheering 
as  at  a  public  meeting. 

"  Don't  make  too  much  noise,"  said  Inspector 
Ratcliffe,  "  Sunday  may  hear  you." 

"  Sunday  !  "  cried  Bull,  and  dropped  his  hat. 

"  Yes,"  retorted  Ratcliffe,  "  he  may  be  with  them." 

"  With  whom?"  asked  Syme. 


THE  DUEL  i8i 

"  With  the  people  out  of  that  train,"  said  the 
other. 

"  What  you  say  seems  utterly  wild,"  began  Syme. 

"  Why,  as  a  matter  of  fact But,  my  God,"  he 

cried  out  suddenly,  like  a  man  who  sees  an  explo- 
sion a  long  way  off,  "  by  God  !  if  this  is  true  the 
whole  bally  lot  of  us  on  the  Anarchist  Council  were 
against  anarchy!  Every  born  man  was  a  detective 
except  the  President  and  his  personal  secretary. 
What  can  it  mean  ?  " 

"  Mean ! '  said  the  new  policeman  with  incredible 
violence.  "  It  means  that  we  are  struck  dead ! 
Don't  you  know  Sunday  ?  Don't  you  know  that 
his  jokes  are  always  so  big  and  simple  that  one  has 
never  thought  of  them  ?  Can  you  think  of  anything 
more  like  Sunday  than  this,  that  he  should  put  all 
his  powerful  enemies  on  the  Supreme  Council,  and 
then  take  care  that  it  was  not  supreme  ?  I  tell  you, 
he  has  bought  every  trust,  he  has  captured  every 
cable,  he  has  control  of  every  railway  line — especially 
of  tJiat  railway  line  !  "  and  he  pointed  a  shaking 
finger  towards  the  small  wayside  station.  "  The 
whole  movement  was  controlled  by  him  ;  half  the 
world  was  ready  to  rise  for  him.  But  there  were 
just  five  people,  perhaps,  who  would  have  resisted 
him     .     .     .     and  the  old  devil  put  them  on  the 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


Supreme  Council,  to  waste  their  time  in  watching 
each  other.  Idiots  that  we  are,  he  planned  the 
whole  of  our  idiocies  !  Sunday  knew  that  the  Pro- 
fessor would  chase  Syme  through  London,  and  that 
Syme  would  fight  me  in  France.  And  he  was  com- 
bining great  masses  of  capital,  and  seizing  great 
lines  of  telegraphy,  while  we  five  idiots  were  running 
after  each  other  like  a  lot  of  confounded  babies 
playing  bhnd  man's  buff." 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Syme  with  a  sort  of  steadiness. 

"  Well,"  rephed  the  other  with  sudden  serenity, 
'•  he  has  found  us  playing  blind  man's  buff  to-day  in 
a  field  of  great  rustic  beauty  and  extreme  solitude. 
He  has  probably  captured  the  world ;  it  only  re- 
mains to  him  to  capture  this  field  and  all  the  fools 
in  it.  And  since  you  really  want  to  know  what 
was  my  objection  to  the  arrival  of  that  train, 
I  will  tell  you.  My  objection  was  that  Sunday 
or  his  Secretary  has  just  this  moment  got  out 
of  it." 

Syme  uttered  an  involuntary  cry,  and  they  all 
turned  their  eyes  towards  the  far-off  station.  It 
was  quite  true  that  a  considerable  bulk  of  people 
seemed  to  be  moving  in  their  direction.  But  they 
were  too  distant  to  be  distinguished  in  any  way. 

"  It  was  a  habit  of  the  late  Marquis  de  St.  Eus- 


THE  DUEL  183 

tache,"  said  the  new  policeman,  producing  a  leather 
case,  "  always  to  carry  a  pair  of  opera-glasses. 
Either  the  President  or  the  Secretary  is  coming 
after  us  with  that  mob.  They  have  caught  us  in  a 
nice  quiet  place  where  we  are  under  no  temptations 
to  break  our  oaths  by  calling  the  police.  Dr.  Bull, 
I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  will  see  better  through 
these  than  through  your  own  highly  decorative 
spectacles." 

He  handed  the  field-glasses  to  the  Doctor,  who 
immediately  took  off  his  spectacles  and  put  the 
apparatus  to  his  eyes. 

"  It  cannot  be  as  bad  as  you  say,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor, somewhat  shaken.  "  There  are  a  good 
number  of  them  certainly,  but  they  may  easily  be 
ordinary  tourists." 

"  Do  ordinary  tourists,"  asked  Bull,  with  the  field- 
glass  to  his  eyes,  "  wear  black  masks  half-way  down 
the  face  ?  " 

Syme  almost  tore  the  glasses  out  of  his  hand,  and 
looked  through  them.  Most  men  in  the  advancing 
mob  really  looked  ordinary  enough ;  but  it  was 
quite  true  that  two  or  three  of  the  leaders  in  front 
wore  black  half-masks  almost  down  to  their 
mouths.  This  disguise  is  very  complete,  especially 
at  such  a  distance,  and  Syme  found  it  impossible  to 


1 84        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

conclude  anything  from  the  clean-shaven  jaws  and 
chins  of  the  men  talking  in  the  front.  But  pres- 
ently as  they  talked  they  all  smiled,  and  one  of  them 
smiled  on  one  side. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   CRIMINALS   CHASE   THE   POLICE 

Syme  put  the  field-glass  from  his  eyes  with  an 
almost  ghastly  relief. 

"The  President  is  not  with  them,  anyhow,"  he 
said,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"  But  surely  they  are  right  away  on  the  horizon," 
said  the  bewildered  Colonel,  blinking  and  but  half 
recovered  from  Bull's  hasty  though  polite  explana- 
tion. "  Could  you  possibly  know  your  President 
among  all  those  people?" 

"  Could  I  know  a  white  elephant  among  all  those 
people!"  answered  Syme  somewhat  irritably.  "As 
you  very  truly  say,  they  are  on  the  horizon ;  but  if 
he  were  walking  with  them  ...  by  God !  I 
believe  this  ground  would  shake." 

After  an  instant's  pause  the  new  man  called  Rat- 
cliffe  said  with  gloomy  decision  — 

"  Of  course  the  President  isn't  with  them.  I  wish 
to  Gemini  he  were.  Much  more  likely  the  Presi- 
dent is  riding  in  triumph  through  Paris,  or  sitting 
on  the  ruins  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral." 

"  This    is    absurd  ! "     said    Syme.     "  Something 
185 


i86        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

may  have  happened  in  our  absence ;  but  he  cannot 
have  carried  the  world  with  a  rush  hke  that.  It  is 
quite  true,"  he  added,  frowning  dubiously  at  the 
distant  fields  that  lay  towards  the  little  station,  "  it 
is  certainly  true  that  there  seems  to  be  a  crowd 
coming  this  way ;  but  they  are  not  all  the  army 
that  you  make  out." 

"  Oh,  they,"  said  the  new  detective  contemptu- 
ously ;  "  no,  they  are  not  a  very  valuable  force. 
But  let  me  tell  you  frankly  that  they  are  precisely 
calculated  to  our  value — we  are  not  much,  my  boy, 
in  Sunday's  universe.  He  has  got  hold  of  all  the 
cables  and  telegraphs  himself.  But  to  kill  the 
Supreme  Council  he  regards  as  a  trivial  matter, 
like  a  post-card  ;  it  may  be  left  to  his  private  secre- 
tary," and  he  spat  on  the  grass. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  others  and  said  somewhat 
austerely  — 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  to  be  said  for  death ;  but 
if  any  one  has  any  preference  for  the  other  alterna- 
tive, I  strongly  advise  him  to  walk  after  me." 

With  these  words,  he  turned  his  broad  back  and 
strode  with  silent  energy  towards  the  wood.  The 
others  gave  one  glance  over  their  shoulders,  and 
saw  that  the  dark  cloud  of  men  had  detached  itself 
from  the  station  and  was  moving  with  a  mysterious 


THE    CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE     187 

discipline  across  the  plain.  They  saw  already,  even 
with  the  naked  eye,  black  blots  on  the  foremost 
faces,  which  marked  the  masks  they  wore.  They 
turned  and  followed  their  leader,  who  had  already 
struck  the  wood,  and  disappeared  among  the 
twinkhng  trees. 

The  sun  on  the  grass  was  dry  and  hot.  So  in 
plunging  into  the  wood  they  had  a  cool  shock  of 
shadow,  as  of  divers  who  plunge  into  a  dim  pool. 
The  inside  of  the  wood  was  full  of  shattered  sunlight 
and  shaken  shadows.  They  made  a  sort  of  shudder- 
ing veil,  almost  recalling  the  dizziness  of  a  cinemato- 
graph. Even  the  solid  figures  walking  with  him 
Syme  could  hardly  see  for  the  patterns  of  sun  and 
shade  that  danced  upon  them.  Now  a  man's  head 
was  lit  as  with  a  light  of  Rembrandt,  leaving  all 
else  obliterated ;  now  again  he  had  strong  and  star- 
ing white  hands  with  the  face  of  a  negro.  The  ex- 
Marquis  had  pulled  the  old  straw  hat  over  his  eyes, 
and  the  black  shade  of  the  brim  cut  his  face  so 
squarely  in  two  that  it  seemed  to  be  wearing  one  of 
the  black  half-masks  of  their  pursuers.  The  fancy 
tinted  Syme's  overwhelming  sense  of  wonder.  Was 
he  wearing  a  mask  ?  Was  any  one  wearing  a  mask  ? 
Was  any  one  anything  ?  This  wood  of  witchery,  in 
which  men's  faces  turned  black  and  white  by  turns, 


1 88       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

in  which  their  figures  first  swelled  into  sunlight  and 
then  faded  into  formless  night,  this  mere  chaos  of 
chiaroscuro  (after  the  clear  daylight  outside),  seemed 
to  Syme  a  perfect  symbol  of  the  world  in  which  he 
had  been  moving  for  three  days,  this  world  where 
men  took  off  their  beards  and  their  spectacles  and 
their  noses,  and  turned  into  other  people.  That 
tragic  self-confidence  which  he  had  felt  when  he 
believed  that  the  Marquis  was  a  devil  had  strangely 
disappeared  now  that  he  knew  that  the  Marquis  was 
a  friend.  He  felt  almost  inclined  to  ask  after  all 
these  bewilderments  what  was  a  friend  and  what  an 
enemy.  Was  there  anything  that  was  apart  from 
what  it  seemed  ?  The  Marquis  had  taken  off  his 
nose  and  turned  out  to  be  a  detective.  Might  he 
not  just  as  well  take  off  his  head  and  turn  out  to  be 
a  hobgoblin  ?  Was  not  everything,  after  all,  like 
this  bewildering  woodland,  this  dance  of  dark  and 
light?  Everything  only  a  glimpse,  the  glimpse  al- 
ways unforeseen,  and  always  forgotten.  For  Gabriel 
Syme  had  found  in  the  heart  of  that  sun-splashed 
wood  what  many  modern  painters  had  found  there. 
He  had  found  the  thing  which  the  modern  peo- 
ple call  Impressionism,  which  is  another  name  for 
that  final  scepticism  which  can  find  no  floor  to  the 
universe. 


-I* 


THE  CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE      189 

As  a  man  in  an  evil  dream  strains  himself  to 
scream  and  wake,  Syme  strove  with  a  sudden  effort 
to  fling  off  this  last  and  worst  of  his  fancies.  With 
two  impatient  strides  he  overtook  the  man  in  the 
Marquis's  straw  hat,  the  man  whom  he  had  come 
to  address  as  Ratcliffe.  In  a  voice  exaggeratively 
loud  and  cheerful,  he  broke  the  bottomless  silence 
and  made  conversation. 

•*  May  I  ask,"  he  said, "  where  on  earth  we  are  all 
going  to  ?  " 

So  genuine  had  been  the  doubts  of  his  soul,  that 
he  was  quite  glad  to  hear  his  companion  speak  in 
an  easy,  human  voice. 

"  We  must  get  down  through  the  town  of  Lancy 
to  the  sea,"  he  said,  "  I  think  that  part  of  the 
country  is  least  likely  to  be  with  them." 

"  What  can  you  mean  by  all  this  ?  "  cried  Syme. 
"  They  can't  be  running  the  real  world  in  that  way. 
Surely  not  many  working  men  are  anarchists,  and 
surely  if  they  were,  mere  mobs  could  not  beat 
modern  armies  and  police." 

"  Mere  mobs  ! "  repeated  his  new  friend  with  a 
snort  of  scorn.  "  So  you  talk  about  mobs  and  the 
working  classes  as  if  they  were  the  question. 
You've  got  that  eternal  idiotic  idea  that  if  anarchy 
came  it  would  come  from  the  poor.     Why  should 


I90       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

it  ?  The  poor  have  been  rebels,  but  they  have  never 
been  anarchists  ;  they  have  more  interest  than  any 
one  else  in  there  being  some  decent  government. 
The  poor  man  really  has  a  stake  in  the  country. 
The  rich  man  hasn't ;  he  can  go  away  to  New 
Guinea  in  a  yacht.  The  poor  have  sometimes  ob- 
jected to  being  governed  badly ;  the  rich  have  al- 
ways objected  to  being  governed  at  all.  Aristocrats 
were  always  anarchists,  as  you  can  see  from  the 
barons'  wars." 

"  As  a  lecture  on  English  history  for  the  little 
ones,"  said  Syme,  "  this  is  all  very  nice ;  but  I  have 
not  yet  grasped  its  application." 

"  Its  application  is,"  said  his  informant,  "  that 
most  of  old  Sunday's  right-hand  men  are  South 
African  and  American  milHonaires.  That  is  why 
he  has  got  hold  of  all  the  communications  ;  and  that 
is  why  the  last  four  champions  of  the  anti-anarchist 
police  force  are  running  through  a  wood  like  rab- 
bits." 

**  Millionaires  I  can  understand,"  said  Syme 
thoughtfully,  "  they  are  nearly  all  mad.  But  get- 
ting hold  of  a  few  wicked  old  gentlemen  with  hob- 
bies is  one  thing ;  getting  hold  of  great  Christian 
nations  is  another.  I  would  bet  the  nose  off  my 
face  (forgive  the  allusion)  that  Sunday  would  stand 


THE  CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE      191 

perfectly  helpless  before  the  task  of  converting  any 
ordinary  healthy  person  anywhere." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  it  rather  depends  what 
sort  of  person  you  mean." 

"  Well,  for  instance,"  said  Syme,  "  we  could  never 
convert  that  person,"  and  he  pointed  straight  in 
front  of  him. 

They  had  come  to  an  open  space  of  sunlight, 
which  seemed  to  express  to  Syme  the  final  return 
of  his  own  good  sense ;  and  in  the  middle  of  this 
forest  clearing  was  a  figure  that  might  well  stand 
for  that  common  sense  in  an  almost  awful  actuality. 
Burnt  by  the  sun  and  stained  with  perspiration,  and 
grave  with  the  bottomless  gravity  of  small  neces- 
sary toils,  a  heavy  French  peasant  was  cutting  wood 
with  a  hatchet.  His  cart  stood  a  few  yards  oflT, 
already  half  full  of  timber ;  and  the  horse  that 
cropped  the  grass  was,  like  his  master,  valorous  but 
not  desperate  ;  lilcc  his  master,  he  was  even  pros- 
perous, but  yet  was  almost  sad.  The  man  was  a 
Norman,  taller  than  the  average  of  the  French  and 
very  angular;  and  his  swarthy  figure  stood  dark 
against  a  square  of  sunlight,  almost  like  some  alle- 
goric figure  of  labour  frescoed  on  a  ground  of 
gold. 

"  Mr.  Syme  is  saying,"  called  out  RatclifTc  to  the 


192        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

French  Colonel,  "  that  this  man,  at  least,  will  never 
be  an  anarchist." 

"  Mr.  Syme  is  right  enough  there,"  answered 
Colonel  Ducroix,  laughing,  "  if  only  for  the  reason 
that  he  has  plenty  of  property  to  defend.  But 
I  forgot  that  in  your  country  you  are  not  used  to 
peasants  being  wealthy." 

"  He  looks  poor,"  said  Dr.  Bull  doubtfully. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  that  is  why  he 
is  rich." 

"  I  have  an  idea,"  called  out  Dr.  Bull  suddenly ; 
♦*  how  much  would  he  take  to  give  us  a  lift  in  his 
cart?  Those  dogs  are  all  on  foot,  and  we  could 
soon  leave  them  behind." 

"  Oh,  give  him  anything ! "  said  Syme  eagerly. 
"  I  have  piles  of  money  on  me." 

"  That  will  never  do,"  said  the  Colonel ;  "  he  will 
never  have  any  respect  for  you  unless  you  drive  a 
bargain." 

**  Oh,  if  he  haggles  ! "  began  Bull  impatiently. 

"  He  haggles  because  he  is  a  free  man,"  said  the 
other.  "  You  do  not  understand  ;  he  would  not  see 
the  meaning  of  generosity.    He  is  not  being  tipped." 

And  even  while  they  seemed  to  hear  the  heavy 
feet  of  their  strange  pursuers  behind  them,  they  had 
to  stand  and  stamp  while  the  French  Colonel  talked 


THE  CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE      193 

to  the  French  wood-cutter  with  all  the  leisurely 
badinage  and  bickering  of  market-day.  At  the  end 
of  the  four  minutes,  however,  they  saw  that  the 
Colonel  was  right,  for  the  wood- cutter  entered  into 
their  plans,  not  with  the  vague  servility  of  a  tout 
too-well  paid,  but  with  the  seriousness  of  a  solicitor 
who  had  been  paid  the  proper  fee.  He  told  them 
that  the  best  thing  they  could  do  was  to  make  their 
way  down  to  the  little  inn  on  the  hills  above  Lancy, 
where  the  innkeeper,  an  old  soldier  who  had  become 
divot  in  his  latter  years,  would  be  certain  to  sympa- 
thise with  them,  and  even  to  take  risks  in  their 
support.  The  whole  company,  therefore,  piled 
themselves  on  top  of  the  stacks  of  wood,  and  went 
rocking  in  the  rude  cart  down  tiie  other  and  steeper 
side  of  the  woodland.  I  leavy  and  ramshackle  a.s 
wa.s  the  vehicle,  it  was  driven  (juickly  enough,  and 
they  soon  had  the  exhilarating  impression  of  dis- 
tancing altogether  those,  whoever  the)'  were,  who 
were  hunting  them.  I''or,  after  all,  the  riddle  as  to 
where  tiie  anarchists  had  got  all  these  followers  was 
still  unsolved.  One  man's  presence  had  sufficed  for 
them  ;  they  had  fled  at  the  first  sight  of  the  de- 
formed smile  of  the  Secretary.  Syme  cver>'  now 
and  then  looked  back  over  his  shoulder  at  the  army 
on  their  track. 


194 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


As  the  wood  grew  first  thinner  and  then  smaller 
with  distance,  he  could  see  the  sunlit  slopes  beyond 
it  and  above  it ;  and  across  these  was  still  moving 
the  square  black  mob  like  one  monstrous  beetle. 
In  the  very  strong  sunlight  and  with  his  own  very 
strong  eyes,  which  were  almost  telescopic,  Syme 
could  see  this  mass  of  men  quite  plainly.  He  could 
see  th^m  as  separate  human  figures ;  but  he  was 
increasingly  surprised  by  the  way  in  which  they 
moved  as  one  man.  They  seemed  to  be  dressed  in 
dark  clothes  and  plain  hats,  like  any  common  crowd 
out  of  the  streets ;  but  they  did  not  spread  and 
sprawl  and  trail  by  various  lines  to  the  attack,  as 
would  be  natural  in  an  ordinary  mob.  They  moved 
with  a  sort  of  dreadful  and  wicked  woodenness,  like 
a  staring  army  of  automatons. 

Syme  pointed  this  out  to  Ratcliffe. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  policeman,  "  that's  discipline. 
That's  Sunday.  He  is  perhaps  five  hundred  miles 
off,  but  the  fear  of  him  is  on  all  of  them,  like  the 
finger  of  God.  Yes,  they  are  walking  regularly ;  and 
you  bet  your  boots  that  they  are  talking  regularly, 
yes,  and  thinking  regularly.  But  the  one  important 
thing  for  us  is  that  they  are  disappearing  reg- 
ularly." 

Syme  nodded.    It  was  true  that  the  black  patch  of 


i 


THE  CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE      195 

the  pursuing  men  was  growing  smaller  and  smaller 
as  the  peasant  belaboured  his  horse. 

The  level  of  the  sunlit  landscape,  though  flat  as  a 
whole,  fell  away  on  the  farther  side  of  the  wood  in 
billows  of  heavy  slope  towards  the  sea,  in  a  way  not 
unlike  the  lower  slopes  of  the  Sussex  downs.  The 
only  difference  was  that  in  Sussex  the  road  would 
have  been  broken  and  angular  like  a  little  brook, 
but  here  the  white  French  road  fell  sheer  in  front 
of  them  like  a  waterfall.  Down  this  direct  descent 
the  cart  clattered  at  a  considerable  angle,  and  in  a 
few  minutes,  the  road  growing  yet  steeper,  they  saw 
below  them  the  little  harbour  of  Lancy  and  a  great 
blue  arc  of  the  sea.  The  travelling  cloud  of  their 
enemies  had  wholly  disappeared  from  the  horizon. 

The  horse  and  cart  took  a  sharp  turn  round  a 
clump  of  elms,  and  the  horse's  nose  nearly  struck 
the  face  of  an  old  gentleman  who  was  sitting  on  the 
benches  outside  the  little  cafe  of  •'  Le  Soleil  d'Or." 
The  peasant  grunted  an  apology,  and  got  down 
from  his  seat.  The  others  also  descended  one  by 
one,  and  spoke  to  the  old  gentleman  with  frag- 
mentary phrases  of  courtesy,  for  it  was  quite  evi- 
dent from  his  expansive  manner  that  he  was  the 
owner  of  the  little  t.ivcrn. 

He  was  a  white-haired,  apple-faced  old  boy,  with 


196        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

sleepy  eyes  and  a  grey  moustache ;  stout,  sedentary, 
and  very  innocent,  of  a  type  that  may  often  be 
found  in  France,  but  is  still  commoner  in  Catholic 
Germany.  Everything  about  him,  his  pipe,  his 
pot  of  beer,  his  flowers,  his  beehive,  suggested  an 
ancestral  peace ;  only  when  his  visitors  looked  up 
as  they  entered  the  inn-parlour,  they  saw  the  sword 
upon  the  wall. 

The  Colonel,  who  greeted  the  innkeeper  as  an 
old  friend,  passed  rapidly  into  the  inn-parlour,  and 
sat  down  ordering  some  ritual  refreshment.  The 
military  decision  of  his  action  interested  Syme,  who 
sat  next  to  him,  and  he  took  the  opportunity  when 
the  old  innkeeper  had  gone  out  of  satisfying  his  curi- 
osity. 

"  May  I  ask  you.  Colonel,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"  why  we  have  come  here  ?  " 

Colonel  Ducroix  smiled  behind  his  bristly  white 
moustache. 

"  For  two  reasons,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  will  give 
first,  not  the  most  important,  but  the  most  utilitarian. 
We  came  here  because  this  is  the  only  place  within 
twenty  miles  in  which  we  can  get  horses." 

"  Horses  ! "  repeated  Syme,  looking  up  quickly. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other;  "if  you  people  are 
really  to  distance  your  enemies  it  is  horses  or  noth- 


THE  CRIMINALS  CHASE  THE  POLICE      197 

ing  for  you,  unless  of  course  you  have  bicycles  and 
motor-cars  in  your  pocket." 

"  And  where  do  you  advise  us  to  make  for  ? " 
asked  Syme  doubtfully. 

"  Beyond  question,"  replied  the  Colonel,  "  you 
had  better  make  all  haste  to  the  police  station  be- 
yond the  town.  My  friend,  whom  I  seconded  under 
somewhat  deceptive  circumstances,  seems  to  me  to 
exaggerate  very  much  the  possibilities  of  a  general 
rising;  but  even  he  would  hardly  maintain,  I  sup- 
pose, that  you  were  not  safe  with  the  gendarmes." 

Syme  nodded  gravely  ;  then  he  said  abruptly  — 

"  And  your  other  reason  for  coming  here?" 

"  My  other  reason  for  coming  here,"  said  Ducroix 
soberly,  "  is  that  it  is  just  as  well  to  sec  a  good  man 
or  two  when  one  is  possibly  near  to  death." 

Syme  looked  up  at  the  wall,  and  saw  a  crudely- 
painted  and  pathetic  religious  picture.  Then  he 
said  — 

"  You  are  right,"  and  then  almost  immediately 
afterwards,  "  Has  any  one  seen  about  tiie  horses?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Ducroix,  "  you  may  be  quite 
certain  that  I  gave  orders  the  moment  I  came  in. 
Those  enemies  of  yours  gave  no  impression  of  hurrj', 
but  they  were  really  moving  wonderfully  fast,  like  a 
well-trained  army.     I  had  no  idea  that  the  anarchists 


198       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

had  so  much  discipline.  You  have  not  a  moment 
to  waste." 

Almost  as  he  spoke,  the  old  innkeeper  with  the 
blue  eyes  and  white  hair  came  ambling  into  the 
room,  and  announced  that  six  horses  were  saddled 
outside. 

By  Ducroix's  advice  the  five  others  equipped 
themselves  with  some  portable  form  of  food  and 
wine,  and  keeping  their  duelling  swords  as  the  only 
weapons  available,  they  clattered  away  down  the 
steep,  white  road.  The  two  servants,  who  had  car- 
ried the  Marquis's  luggage  when  he  was  a  marquis, 
were  left  behind  to  drink  at  the  cafe  by  common 
consent,  and  not  at  all  against  their  own  inclination. 

By  this  time  the  afternoon  sun  was  slanting  west- 
ward, and  by  its  rays  Syme  could  see  the  sturdy 
figure  of  the  old  innkeeper  growing  smaller  and 
smaller,  but  still  standing  and  looking  after  them 
quite  silently,  the  sunshine  in  his  silver  hair.  Syme 
had  a  fixed,  superstitious  fancy,  left  in  his  mind  by 
the  chance  phrase  of  the  Colonel,  that  this  was  in- 
deed, perhaps,  the  last  honest  stranger  whom  he 
should  ever  see  upon  the  earth. 

He  was  still  looking  at  this  dwindling  figure, 
which  stood  as  a  mere  grey  blot  touched  with  a 
white  flame  against  the  great  green  wall  of  the  steep 


THE  CRIMINALS  CIIASK  THE  POLICE      iw 

down  behind  him.  And  as  he  stared,  over  the  top 
of  the  down  behind  tlie  innkeeper,  there  appeared 
an  army  of  black-clad  and  marching  men.  They 
seemed  to  hang  above  the  good  man  and  his  house 
like  a  black  cloud  of  locusts.  The  horses  had  been 
saddled  none  too  soon. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE   EARTH    IN   ANARCHY 

Urging  the  horses  to  a  gallop,  without  respect  to 
the  rather  rugged  descent  of  the  road,  the  horse- 
men soon  regained  their  advantage  over  the  men 
on  the  march,  and  at  last  the  bulk  of  the  first 
buildings  of  Lancy  cut  off  the  sight  of  their  pur- 
suers. Nevertheless,  the  ride  had  been  a  long  one, 
and  by  the  time  they  reached  the  real  town  the 
west  was  warming  with  the  colour  and  quality  of 
sunset.  The  Colonel  suggested  that,  before  making 
finally  for  the  police  station,  they  should  make  the 
effort,  in  passing,  to  attach  to  themselves  one  more 
individual  who  might  be  useful. 

"  Four  out  of  the  five  rich  men  in  this  town,"  he 
said,  "  are  common  swindlers.  I  Suppose  the  pro- 
portion is  pretty  equal  all  over  the  world.  The 
fifth  is  a  friend  of  mine,  and  a  very  fine  fellow ; 
and  what  is  even  more  important  from  our  point  of 
view,  he  owns  a  motor-car." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Professor  in  his  mirthful 
way,  looking  back  along  the  white  road  on  which 

200 


THE  EARTH   IN  ANARCHY  201 

the  black,  crawling  patch  might  appear  at  any 
moment,  "  I  am  afraid  we  have  hardly  time  for 
afternoon  calls." 

"  Doctor  Renard's  house  is  only  three  minutes 
off,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Our  danger,"  said  Dr.  Bull,  •'  is  not  t^vo  minutes 
ofr." 

"  Yes,"  said  Syme,  "  if  we  ride  on  fast  we  must 
leave  them  behind,  for  they  are  on  foot." 

"  He  has  a  motor-car,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  But  we  may  not  get  it,"  said  Bull. 

"  Yes,  he  is  quite  on  your  side." 

"  But  he  might  be  out." 

"Hold  your  tongue,"  said  Syme  suddenly. 
•'  What  is  that  noise  ?  " 

For  a  second  they  all  sat  as  still  as  equestrian 
statues,  and  for  a  second — for  two  or  three  or  four 
seconds — heaven  and  earth  seemed  equally  still. 
Then  all  their  ears,  in  an  agony  of  attention,  heard 
along  the  road  that  indescribable  thrill  and  throb 
that  means  only  one  thing — horses  ! 

The  Colonel's  face  had  an  instantincous  change, 
as  if  lightning  had  struck  it,  and  yet  left  it  scathe- 
less. 

"  They  have  done  us,"  he  said,  with  brief  military 
irony.     '•  Prepare  to  receive  cavalry  ! " 


202       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  Where  can  they  have  got  the  horses  ?  "  asked 
Syme,  as  he  mechanically  urged  his  steed  to  a 
canter. 

The  Colonel  was  silent  for  a  little,  then  he  said 
in  a  strained  voice  — 

"  I  w^as  speaking  with  strict  accuracy  when  I  said 
that  the  '  Soleil  d'Or  '  was  the  only  place  where  one 
can  get  horses  within  twenty  miles." 

"  No  !  "  said  Syme  violently, "  I  don't  believe  he'd 
do  it.     Not  with  all  that  white  hair." 

"  He  may  have  been  forced,"  said  the  Colonel 
gently.  "  They  must  be  at  least  a  hundred  strong, 
for  which  reason  we  are  all  going  to  see  my  friend 
Renard,  who  has  a  motor-car." 

With  these  words  he  swung  his  horse  suddenly 
round  a  street  corner,  and  went  down  the  street  with 
such  thundering  speed,  that  the  others,  though  al- 
ready well  at  the  gallop,  had  difficulty  in  following 
the  flying  tail  of  his  horse. 

Dr.  Renard  inhabited  a  high  and  comfortable 
house  at  the  top  of  a  steep  street,  so  that  when  the 
riders  alighted  at  his  door  they  could  once  more  see 
the  solid  green  ridge  of  the  hill,  with  the  white  road 
across  it,  standing  up  above  all  the  roofs  of  the 
town.  They  breathed  again  to  see  that  the  road  as 
yet  was  clear,  and  they  rang  the  bell. 


THE  l':ARrH   IN  ANARCHY  203 

Dr.  Rcnard  was  a  beaming,  brown -bearded  man, 
a  good  example  of  that  silent  but  very  busy 
professional  class  which  France  has  preserved  even 
more  perfectly  than  England.  When  the  matter 
was  explained  to  him  he  pooh-poohed  the  panic  of 
the  ex-Marquis  altogether ;  he  said,  with  the  solid 
French  scepticism,  that  there  was  no  conceivable 
probability  of  a  general  anarchist  rising.  '•  An- 
archy," he  said,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "  it  is 
childishness ! " 

••  Et ca"  cried  out  the  Colonel  suddenly, pointing 
over  the  other's  shoulder,  "  and  that  is  childishness, 
isn't  it?" 

They  all  looked  round,  and  saw  a  curve  of  black 
cavalry  come  sweeping  over  the  top  of  the  hill  with 
all  the  energy  of  Attila.  Swiftly  as  they  rode,  how- 
ever, the  whole  rank  still  kept  well  together,  and 
they  could  sec  the  black  vizards  of  tlic  first  line  as 
level  as  a  line  of  uniforms.  Ihit  although  the  main 
black  square  was  the  same,  though  travelling  faster, 
there  was  now  one  sensational  difference  which  they 
could  see  clearly  upon  the  slope  of  the  hill,  as  if 
upon  a  slanted  map.  The  bulk  of  the  riders  were 
in  one  block ;  but  one  rider  flew  far  ahead  of  the 
column,  and  with  frantic  movements  of  hand  and 
heel   urged  his  horse  faster  and  faster,  so  tliat  one 


204       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

might  have  fancied  that  he  was  not  the  pursuer  but 
the  pursued.  But  even  at  that  great  distance  they 
could  see  something  so  fanatical,  so  unquestionable 
in  his  figure,  that  they  knew  it  was  the  Secretary 
himself. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  cut  short  a  cultured  discussion," 
said  the  Colonel,  "  but  can  you  lend  me  your  motor- 
car now,  in  two  minutes  ?  " 

"  I 'have  a  suspicion  that  you  are  all  mad,"  said 
Dr.  Renard,  smiling  sociably  ;  "  but  God  forbid  that 
madness  should  in  any  way  interrupt  friendship. 
Let  us  go  round  to  the  garage." 

Dr.  Renard  was  a  mild  man  with  monstrous 
wealth ;  his  rooms  were  like  the  Musee  de  Cluny, 
and  he  had  three  motor-cars.  These,  however,  he 
seemed  to  use  very  sparingly,  having  the  simple 
tastes  of  the  French  middle  class,  and  when  his  im- 
patient friends  came  to  examine  them,  it  took  them 
some  time  to  assure  themselves  that  one  of  them 
even  could  be  made  to  work.  This  with  some  diffi- 
culty they  brought  round  into  the  street  before 
the  Doctor's  house.  When  they  came  out  of  the 
dim  garage  they  were  startled  to  find  that  twilight 
had  already  fallen  with  the  abruptness  of  night  in 
the  tropics.  Either  they  had  been  longer  in  the 
place  than  they  imagined,  or  some  unusual  canopy 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  205 

of  cloud  had  gathered  over  tlie  town.  They  looked 
down  the  steep  streets,  and  seemed  to  sec  a  shght 
mist  coming  up  from  the  sea. 

"  It  is  now  or  never,"  said  Ur.  Bull.  "I  hear  horses," 
"  No,"  corrected  the  Professor,  "  a  horse." 
And  as  they  listened,  it  was  evident  that  the 
noise,  rapidly  coming  nearer  on  the  rattling  stones, 
was  not  the  noise  of  the  whole  cavalcade  but  that 
of  the  one  horseman,  who  had  left  it  far  behind — 
the  insane  Secretary, 

Syme's  family,  like  most  of  those  who  end  in  the 
simple  life,  had  once  owned  a  motor,  and  he  knew 
all  about  them.  lie  had  leapt  at  once  into  the 
chauffeur's  seat,  and  with  flushed  face  was  wrench- 
ing and  tugging  at  the  disused  machiner>'.  He 
bent  his  strength  upon  one  handle,  and  then  said 
quite  quietly  — 

"  I  am  afraid  it's  no  go." 

As  he  spoke,  there  swept  round  the  corner  a  man, 
rigid  on  his  rushing  horse,  with  the  rush  and  rigidity 
of  an  arrow.  He  had  a  smile  that  thrust  out  his 
chin  as  if  it  were  dislocated.  He  swept  alongside 
of  the  stationary  car,  into  which  its  company  had 
crowded,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  front.  It  was  the 
Secretary,  and  his  mouth  went  quite  straight  in  the 
solemnity  of  triumph. 


2o6        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Syme  was  leaning  hard  upon  the  steering  wheel, 
and  there  was  no  sound  but  the  rumble  of  the  other 
pursuers  riding  into  the  town.  Then  there  came 
quite  suddenly  a  scream  of  scraping  iron,  and  the 
car  leapt  forward.  It  plucked  the  Secretary  clean 
out  of  his  saddle,  as  a  knife  is  whipped  out  of  its 
sheath,  trailed  him  kicking  terribly  for  twenty  yards, 
and  left  him  flung  flat  upon  the  road  far  in  front  of 
his  frightened  horse.  As  the  car  took  the  corner  of 
the  street  with  a  splendid  curve,  they  could  just  see 
the  other  anarchists  filling  the  street  and  raising 
their  fallen  leader. 

"  I  can't  understand  why  it  has  grown  so  dark," 
said  the  Professor  at  last  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Going  to  be  a  storm,  I  think,"  said  Dr.  Bull. 
"  I  say,  it's  a  pity  we  haven't  got  a  light  on  this  car, 
if  only  to  see  by." 

"  We  have,"  said  the  Colonel,  and  from  the  floor 
of  the  car  he  fished  up  a  heavy,  old-fashioned, 
carved  iron  lantern  with  a  light  inside  it.  It  was 
obviously  an  antique,  and  it  would  seem  as  if  its 
original  use  had  been  in  some  way  semi-rehgious, 
for  there  was  a  rude  moulding  of  a  cross  upon  one 
of  its  sides. 

"  Where  on  earth  did  you  get  that  ?  "  asked  the 
Professor. 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  207 

"  I  got  it  where  I  got  the  car,"  answered  the 
Colonel,  chuckling,  "  from  my  best  friend.  While 
our  friend  here  was  fighting  with  the  steering  wheel, 
I  ran  up  the  front  steps  of  the  house  and  spoke  to 
Renard,  who  was  standing  in  his  own  porch,  you 
will  remember.  '  I  suppose,'  I  said, '  there's  no  time 
to  get  a  lamp.'  He  looked  up,  blinking  amiably  at 
the  beautiful  arched  ceiling  of  his  own  front  hall. 
From  this  was  suspended,  by  chains  of  exquisite 
ironwork,  this  lantern,  one  of  the  hundred  treasures 
of  his  treasure  house.  By  sheer  force  he  tore  the 
lamp  out  of  his  own  ceiling,  shattering  tlic  painted 
panels,  and  bringing  down  two  blue  vases  with  his 
violence.  Then  he  handed  me  the  iron  lantern,  and 
I  put  it  in  the  car.  Was  I  not  right  when  I  said 
that  Dr.  Renard  was  worth  knowing  ?  " 

"  You  were,"  said  Syme  seriously,  and  hung  the 
heavy  lantern  over  the  front.  There  wa-s  a  certain 
allegory  of  their  whole  position  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  modern  automobile  and  its  strange,  eccle- 
siastical lamp. 

Hitherto  they  had  passed  through  the  quietest 
part  of  tile  town,  meeting  at  most  one  or  two 
pedestrians,  who  could  give  tiiem  no  hint  of  the 
peace  or  the  hostility  of  the  place.  Now,  however, 
the  windows  in  tile  houses  began  one  by  one  to  be 


2o8       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

lit  up,  giving  a  greater  sense  of  habitation  and 
humanity.  Dr.  Bull  turned  to  the  new  detective 
who  had  led  their  flight,  and  permitted  himself  one 
of  his  natural  and  friendly  smiles. 

"  These  lights  make  one  feel  more  cheerful." 

Inspector  Ratcliffe  drew  his  brows  together. 

•'  There  is  only  one  set  of  lights  that  make  me 
more  cheerful,"  he  said,  "  and  they  are  those  lights 
of  the  police  station  which  I  can  see  beyond  the 
town.  Please  God  we  may  be  there  in  ten 
minutes." 

Then  all  Bull's  boiling  good  sense  and  optimism 
broke  suddenly  out  of  him. 

"  Oh,  this  is  all  raving  nonsense  ! "  he  cried.  "  If 
you  really  think  that  ordinary  people  in  ordinary 
houses  are  anarchists,  you  must  be  madder  than  an 
anarchist  yourself.  If  we  turned  and  fought  these 
fellows,  the  whole  town  would  fight  for  us." 

"  No,"  said  the  other  with  an  immovable  sim- 
plicity, "  the  whole  town  would  fight  for  them.  We 
shall  see." 

While  they  were  speaking  the  Professor  had  leant 
forward  with  sudden  excitement. 

"  What  is  that  noise  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  the  horses  behind  us,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
Colonel.     «'  I  thought  we  had  got  clear  of  them." 


THE  EARIH   IN  ANARCHY  209 

*•  The  horses  behind  us  !  No,"  said  the  Professor, 
"  it  is  not  horses,  and  it  is  not  behind  us," 

Ahiiost  as  he  spoke,  across  the  end  of  the  street 
before  them  two  shining  and  rattling  shapes  shot 
past.  They  were  gone  almost  in  a  flash,  but  every 
one  could  see  that  tiicy  were  motor-cars,  and  the 
Professor  stood  up  with  a  pale  face  and  swore 
that  they  were  the  other  two  motor-cars  from  Dr. 
Renard's  garage. 

"  I  tell  you  they  were  his,"  he  repeated,  with 
wild  eyes,  "  and  they  were  full  of  men  in 
masks ! " 

"  Absurd!  "said  the  Colonel  angrily.  "  Dr.  Re- 
nard  would  never  give  them  his  cars." 

"  He  may  have  been  forced,"  said  RatclifTe 
quietly.     "  The  whole  town  is  on  their  side." 

"  You  still  believe  that,"  asked  the  Colonel  in- 
credulously. 

«'  You  will  all  believe  it  soon,"  said  the  other  with 
a  hopeless  calm. 

There  was  a  puzzled  pause  for  some  little  time, 
and  tlien  the  Colonel  began  again  abruptly  — 

'•  No,  I  can't  believe  it.  The  thing  is  nonsense. 
The  plain  j)cople  of  a  peaceable  P'rench  town " 

I  le  was  cut  short  by  a  bang  and  a  blaze  of  light, 
which  seemed  close  to  his  eyes.     As  the  car  sp>ed  on 


2IO       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

it  left  a  floating  patch  of  white  smoke  behind  it, 
and  Syme  had  heard  a  shot  shriek  past  his  ear. 

"  My  God !  "  said  the  Colonel, "  some  one  has  shot 
at  us." 

"  It  need  not  interrupt  conversation,"  said  the 
gloomy  Ratcliffe.  "  Pray  resume  your  remarks, 
Colonel.  You  were  talking,  I  think,  about  the  plain 
people  of  a  peaceable  French  town." 

The  staring  Colonel  was  long  past  minding  satire. 
He  rolled  his  eyes  all  round  the  street. 

"  It  is  extraordinary,"  he  said,  "  most  extraor- 
dinary." 

"  A  fastidious  person,"  said  Syme,  "  might  even 
call  it  unpleasant.  However,  I  suppose  those  lights 
out  in  the  field  beyond  this  street  are  the  Gendarm- 
erie.    We  shall  soon  get  there." 

"  No,"  said  Inspector  RatcHffe,  "  we  shall  never 
get  there." 

He  had  been  standing  up  and  looking  keenly 
ahead  of  him.  Now  he  sat  down  and  smoothed  his 
sleek  hair  with  a  weary  gesture. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Bull  sharply. 

'•  I  mean  that  we  shall  never  get  there,"  said  the 
pessimist  placidly.  "  They  have  two  rows  of  armed 
men  across  the  road  already ;  I  can  see  them  from 
here.     The  town  is  in  arms,  as  I  said  it  was.     I  can 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  211 

only  wallow  in  the  exquisite  comfort  of  my  own 
exactitude." 

And  Ratcliffe  sat  down  comfortably  in  the  car 
and  lit  a  cigarette,  but  the  others  rose  excitedly  and 
stared  down  the  road.  Syme  had  slowed  down  the 
car  as  their  plans  became  doubtful,  and  he  brought 
it  finally  to  a  standstill  just  at  the  corner  of  a  side 
street  that  ran  down  very  steeply  to  the  sea. 

The  town  was  mostly  in  shadow,  but  the  sun  had 
not  sunk ;  wherever  its  level  light  could  break 
through,  it  painted  everything  a  burning  gold.  Up 
this  side  street  the  last  sunset  light  shone  as  sharp 
and  narrow  as  the  shaft  of  artificial  light  at  the 
theatre.  It  struck  the  car  of  the  five  friends,  and 
lit  it  like  a  burning  chariot.  IJut  the  rest  of  the 
street,  especially  the  two  ends  of  it,  was  in  the 
deepest  twilight,  and  for  some  seconds  they  could 
see  nothing.  Then  Syme,  whose  eyes  were  the 
keenest,  broke  into  a  little  bitter  whistle,  and 
said  — 

"  It  is  quite  true.  There  is  a  crowd  or  an  army 
or  some  such  thing  across  the  end  of  that  street." 

"  Well,  if  there  is,"  saitl  Hull  impatiently,  "  it 
must  be  something  else — a  sham  fight  or  the 
mayor's  birtlulay  or  something.  I  cannot  and  will 
not  believe  that  plain,  jolly  people  in  a  place  like 


212       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

this  walk  about  with  dynamite  in  their  pockets. 
Get  on  a  bit,  Syme,  and  let  us  look  at  them." 

The  car  crawled  about  a  hundred  yards  farther, 
and  then  they  were  all  startled  by  Dr.  Bull  breaking 
into  a  high  crow  of  laughter. 

"  Why,  you  silly  mugs  !  "  he  cried,  "  what  did  I 
tell  you.  That  crowd's  as  law-abiding  as  a  cow, 
and  if  it  weren't,  it's  on  our  side." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  the  Professor, 
staring. 

"  You  bUnd  bat,"  cried  Bull,  *'  don't  you  see  who 
is  leading  them  ?  " 

They  peered  again,  and  then  the  Colonel,  with  a 
catch  in  his  voice,  cried  out  — 

"  Why,  it's  Renard  !  " 

There  was,  indeed,  a  rank  of  dim  figures  running 
across  the  road,  and  they  could  not  be  clearly  seen ; 
but  far  enough  in  front  to  catch  the  accident  of  the 
evening  light  was  stalking  up  and  down  the  unmis- 
takable Dr.  Renard,  in  a  white  hat,  stroking  his 
long  brown  beard,  and  holding  a  revolver  in  his  left 
hand. 

"  What  a  fool  I've  been  ! "  exclaimed  the  Colonel. 
"  Of  course,  the  dear  old  boy  has  turned  out  to  help 
us." 

Dr.  Bull  was  bubbling  over  with  laughter,  swing- 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  213 

ing  the  sword  in  his  hand  as  carelessly  as  a  cane. 
He  jumped  out  of  the  car  and  ran  across  the 
intervening  space,  caUing  out  — 

"  Dr.  Renard  !    Dr.  Renard  !  " 

An  instant  after  Symc  thought  his  own  eyes  had 
gone  mad  in  his  head.  For  the  philanthropic  Dr. 
Renard  had  deliberately  raised  his  revolver  and 
fired  twice  at  Bull,  so  that  the  shots  rang  down  the 
road. 

Almost  at  the  same  second  as  the  pufT  of  white 
cloud  went  up  from  this  atrocious  explosion  a  long 
puff  of  white  cloud  went  up  also  from  the  cigarette 
of  the  cynical  Ratcliffe.  Like  all  the  rest  he  turned 
a  little  pale,  but  he  smiled.  Dr.  Hull,  at  whom  the 
bullets  had  been  fired,  just  missing  his  scalp,  stood 
quite  still  in  the  middle  of  the  road  without  a  sign 
of  fear,  and  then  turned  very  slowly  and  crawled 
back  to  the  car,  and  climbed  in  with  two  holes 
through  his  hat. 

••  Well,"  said  the  cigarette  smoker  slowly,  "  what 
do  you  think  now?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Dr.  liuil  with  precision,  "  that  I 
am  lying  in  bed  at  No.  217  Tcabody  Huildingr;,  and 
that  I  shall  soon  wake  up  with  a  jump ;  or,  if  that's 
not  it,  I  think  that  I  am  sittin;^  in  a  small  cushioned 
cell   in    H.inwell,  and   that   the  doctor  can't   make 


214        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

much  of  my  case.  But  if  you  want  to  know  what 
I  don't  think,  I'll  tell  you.  I  don't  think  what  you 
think.  I  don't  think,  and  I  never  shall  think,  that 
the  mass  of  ordinary  men  are  a  pack  of  dirty  modern 
thinkers.  No,  sir,  I'm  a  democrat,  and  I  still  don't 
beheve  that  Sunday  could  convert  one  average 
navvy  or  counter-jumper.  No,  I  may  be  mad,  but 
humanity  isn't." 

Syme  turned  his  bright  blue  eyes  on  Bull  with  an 
earnestness  which  he  did  not  commonly  make  clear. 

"  You  are  a  very  fine  fellow,"  he  said.  "  You  can 
believe  in  a  sanity  which  is  not  merely  your  sanity. 
And  you're  right  enough  about  humanity,  about 
peasants  and  people  like  that  jolly  old  innkeeper. 
But  you're  not  right  about  Renard.  I  suspected 
him  from  the  first.  He's  rationalistic,  and,  what's 
worse,  he's  rich.  When  duty  and  religion  are  really 
destroyed,  it  will  be  by  the  rich." 

"  They  are  really  destroyed  now,"  said  the  man 
with  a  cigarette,  and  rose  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.     "  The  devils  are  coming  on!  " 

The  men  in  the  motor-car  looked  anxiously  in 
the  direction  of  his  dreamy  gaze,  and  they  saw  that 
the  whole  regiment  at  the  end  of  the  road  was  ad- 
vancing upon  them,  Dr.  Renard  marching  furiously 
in  front,  his  beard  flying  in  the  breeze. 


THR  KARTH   IN   ANARCHY  ^15 

The  Colonel  sprang  out  of  the  car  with  an  intol- 
erant exclamation. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  cried,  "  the  thing  is  incredible. 
It  must  be  a  practical  joke.  If  you  knew  Renard  as 
I  do — it's  like  calling  Queen  Victoria  a  dynamiter. 
If  you  had  got  the  man's  character  into  your 
head " 

"  Dr.  Hull,"  said  Symc  sardonically,  "  has  at  least 
got  it  into  his  hat." 

"  I  tell  you  it  can't  be  !  "  cried  the  Colonel,  stamp- 
ing. "  Renard  shall  explain  it.  1  le  shall  explain 
it  to  mc,"  and  he  strode  forward. 

"  Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,"  drawled  the  smoker, 
"  He  will  very  soon  explain  it  to  all  of  us." 

But  the  impatient  Colonel  was  already  out  of  ear- 
shot, advancing  towards  the  advancing  enemy. 
The  excited  Dr.  Renard  lifted  his  pistol  again,  but 
perceiving  his  opponent,  hesitated,  and  the  Colonel 
came  face  to  face  with  him  with  frantic  gestures  of 
remonstrance. 

"  It  is  no  good,"  said  Syme.  "  He  will  never  get 
anything  out  of  that  old  heathen.  I  vote  we  drive 
bang  through  the  thick  of  them,  bang  as  the  bullets 
went  through  lUiU's  hat.  We  may  all  be  killed,  but 
we  must  kill  a  tidy  number  of  them." 

"  I   won't  'ave  it,"  said   Dr.  Hull,  growing  more 


2i6        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

vulgar  in  the  sincerity  of  his  virtue.  "  The  poor 
chaps  may  be  making  a  mistake.  Give  the  Colonel 
a  chance." 

"  Shall  we  go  back,  then?"  asked  the  Professor. 

"  No,"  said  Ratcliffe  in  a  cold  voice,  "  the  street 
behind  us  is  held  too.  In  fact,  I  seem  to  see  there 
another  friend  of  yours,  Syme." 

Syme  spun  round  smartly,  and  stared  backwards 
at  the  track  which  they  had  travelled.  He  saw  an 
irregular  body  of  horsemen  gathering  and  galloping 
towards  them  in  the  gloom.  He  saw  above  the 
foremost  saddle  the  silver  gleam  of  a  sword,  and 
then  as  it  grew  nearer  the  silver  gleam  of  an  old 
man's  hair.  The  next  moment,  with  shattering 
violence,  he  had  swung  the  motor  round  and  sent 
it  dashing  down  the  steep  side  street  to  the  sea,  like 
a  man  that  desired  only  to  die. 

"  What  the  devil  is  up  ? "  cried  the  Professor, 
seizing  his  arm. 

"  The  morning  star  has  fallen  ! "  said  Syme,  as  his 
own  car  went  down  the  darkness  like  a  falling 
star. 

The  others  did  not  understand  his  words,  but 
when  they  looked  back  at  the  street  above  they  saw 
the  hostile  cavalry  coming  round  the  corner  and 
down    the  slopes  after  them  ;  and  foremost  of  all 


THE  EARTH   IN  ANARCHY  217 

rode  the  good  innkeeper,  flushed  with  tlie  fiery  in- 
nocence of  the  evening  Ught. 

"  The  world  is  insane  !  "  said  the  Professor,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Bull  in  adamantine  humility,  "  it 
is  I." 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do  ?  "  asked  the  Professor. 

"  At  this  moment,"  said  Syme,  with  a  scientific 
detachment,  "  1  think  we  are  going  to  smash  into  a 
lamp-post." 

The  next  instant  the  automobile  had  come  with  a 
catastrophic  jar  against  an  iron  object.  The  instant 
after  that  four  men  had  crawled  out  from  under  a 
chaos  of  metal,  and  a  tall,  lean  lamp-post  that  had 
stood  up  straight  on  the  edge  of  the  marine  parade 
stood  out,  bent  and  twisted,  like  the  branch  of  a 
broken  tree. 

"  Well,  we  smashed  something,"  said  the  Professor, 
with  a  faint  smile.     "  That's  some  comfort." 

"  You're  becoming  an  anarchist,"  said  Syme, 
dusting  his  clothes  with  his  instinct  of  daintiness. 

"  Every  one  is,"  said  Ratcliffe. 

As  they  spoke,  the  white-haired  horseman  and 
his  followers  came  thundering  from  above,  and 
almost  at  the  same  moment  a  dark  string  of  men 
ran  shouting  along  the  sea-front.     Syme  snatched  a 


21 8        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

swordy  and  took  it  in  his  teeth  ;  he  stuck  two  others 
under  his  arm-pits,  took  a  fourth  in  his  left  hand 
and  the  lantern  in  his  right,  and  leapt  off  the  high 
parade  on  to  the  beach  below. 

The  others  leapt  after  him,  with  a  common  ac- 
ceptance of  such  decisive  action,  leaving  the  debris 
and  the  gathering  mob  above  them. 

"  We  have  one  more  chance,"  said  Syme,  taking 
the  steel  out  of  his  mouth.  "  Whatever  all  this 
pandemonium  means,  I  suppose  the  police  station 
will  help  us.  We  can't  get  there,  for  they  hold  the 
way.  But  there's  a  pier  or  breakwater  runs  out 
into  the  sea  just  here,  which  we  could  defend  longer 
than  anything  else,  like  Horatius  and  his  bridge. 
We  must  defend  it  till  the  Gendarmerie  turn  out. 
Keep  after  me," 

They  followed  him  as  he  went  crunching  down 
the  beach,  and  in  a  second  or  two  their  boots  broke 
not  on  the  sea  gravel,  but  on  broad,  flat  stones. 
They  marched  down  a  long,  Iqw  jetty,  running  out 
in  one  arm  into  the  dim,  boiling  sea,  and  when  they 
came  to  the  end  of  it  they  felt  that  they  had  come 
to  the  end  of  their  story.  They  turned  and  faced 
the  town. 

That  town  was  transfigured  with  uproar.  All 
along   the  high  parade  from  which  they  had  just 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  219 

descended  was  a  dark  and  roaring  stream  of 
humanity,  with  tossing  arms  and  fiery  faces,  grop- 
ing and  glaring  towards  them.  The  long  dark  line 
was  dotted  with  torches  and  lanterns ;  but  even 
where  no  flame  lit  up  a  furious  face,  they  could  see 
in  the  farthest  figure,  in  the  most  shadowy  gesture, 
an  organised  hate.  It  was  clear  that  they  were  the 
accursed  of  all  men,  and  they  knew  not  why. 

Two  or  three  men,  looking  little  and  black  Hke 
monkeys,  leapt  over  the  edge  as  they  had  done  and 
dropped  on  to  the  beach.  These  came  ploughing 
down  the  deep  sand,  shouting  horribly,  and  strove 
to  wade  into  the  sea  at  random.  The  example  was 
followed,  and  the  whole  black  mass  of  men  began  to 
run  and  drip  over  the  edge  like  black  treacle. 

Foremost  among  the  men  on  the  beach  Syme  saw 
the  peasant  who  had  driven  their  cart.  He  splashed 
into  the  surf  on  a  huge  cart-horse,  and  shook  his  axe 
at  them. 

"  The  peasant !  "  cried  Syme.  "  They  have  not 
risen  since  the  Middle  Ages." 

"  Even  if  the  police  do  come  now,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor mournfully,  "  they  can  do  nothing  with  this 
mob." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Bull  desperately  ;  "  there  must 
be  some  people  left  in  the  town  who  are  human." 


220        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  No,"  said  the  hopeless  Inspector,  "  the  human 
being  will  soon  be  extinct.  We  are  the  last  of  man- 
kind." 

"  It  may  be,"  said  the  Professor  absently.  Then 
he  added  in  his  dreamy  voice,  "  What  is  all  that  at 
the  end  of  the  '  Dunciad '  ? 

"  'Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine 
Nor  human  life  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine ! 
Lo  !  thy  dread  Empire,  Chaos,  is  restored ; 
Light  dies  before  thine  uncreating  word  : 
Thy  hand,  great  Anarch,  lets  the  curtain  fall ; 
And  universal  darkness  buries  all.'  " 

"  Stop  ! "  cried  Bull  suddenly,  "  the  gendarmes 
are  out." 

The  low  lights  of  the  police  station  were  indeed 
blotted  and  broken  with  hurrying  figures,  and  they 
heard  through  the  darkness  the  clash  and  jingle  of  a 
disciplined  cavalry. 

"  They  are  charging  the  mob  ! "  cried  Bull  in 
ecstasy  or  alarm. 

"  No,"  said  Syme,  "  they  are  formed  along  the 
parade." 

"  They  have  unslung  their  carbines,"  cried  Bull, 
dancing  with  excitement. 

"  Yes,"  said  Ratcliffe,  "  and  they  are  going  to  fire 
on  us." 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  221 

As  he  spoke  there  came  a  long  crackle  of 
musketry,  and  bullets  seemed  to  hop  like  hailstones 
on  the  stones  in  front  of  them. 

"  The  gendarmes  have  joined  them !  "  cried  the 
Professor,  and  struck  his  forehead. 

"  I  am  in  the  padded  cell,"  said  Bull 
solidly. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Ratcliffe  said, 
looking  out  over  the  swollen  sea,  all  a  sort  of  grey 
purple  — 

"  What  does  it  matter  who  is  mad  or  who  is  sane  ? 
We  shall  all  be  dead  soon." 

Syme  turned  to  him  and  said  — 

"  You  are  quite  hopeless,  then  ?  " 

Mr.  Ratcliffe  kept  a  stony  silence  ;  then  at  last  he 
said  quietly  — 

"  No  ;  oddly  enough  I  am  not  quite  hopeless. 
There  is  one  insane  little  hope  that  I  cannot  get  out 
of  my  mind.  The  power  of  this  whole  planet  is 
against  us,  yet  I  cannot  help  wondering  whether  this 
one  silly  little  hope  is  hopeless  yet." 

"  In  what  or  whom  is  your  hope  ?  "  asked  Syme 
with  curiosity. 

"  In  a  man  I  never  saw,"  said  the  other,  looking 
at  the  leaden  sea. 

**  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Syme  in  a  low 


222        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

voice,  "  the  man  in  the  dark  room.  But  Sunday- 
must  have  killed  him  by  now." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  other  steadily ;  "  but  if  so, 
he  was  the  only  man  whom  Sunday  found  it  hard 
to  kill." 

"  I  heard  what  you  said,"  said  the  Professor,  with 
his  back  turned.  "  I  also  am  holding  hard  on  to  the 
thing  I  never  saw." 

All  of  a  sudden  Syme,  who  was  standing  as  if 
blind  with  introspective  thought,  swung  round  and 
cried  out,  like  a  man  waking  from  sleep  — 

"  Where  is  the  Colonel  ?  I  thought  he  was  with 
us!" 

"  The  Colonel !  Yes,"  cried  Bull,"  where  on  earth 
is  the  Colonel  ?  " 

"  He  went  to  speak  to  Renard,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor. 

"  We  cannot  leave  him  among  all  those  beasts," 
cried  Syme.     "  Let  us  die  like  gentlemen  if " 

"  Do  not  pity  the  Colonel,"  said  Ratchffe,  with  a 
pale  sneer.  "  He  is  extremely  comfortable.  He 
is " 

"  No  !  no !  no  ! "  cried  Syme  in  a  kind  of  frenzy, 
"  not  the  Colonel  too  !     I  will  never  believe  it !  " 

"  Will  you  believe  your  eyes  ?  "  asked  the  other, 
and  pointed  to  the  beach. 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  223 

Many  of  their  pursuers  had  waded  into  the  water 
shaking  their  fists,  but  the  sea  was  rough,  and  they 
could  not  reach  the  pier.  Two  or  three  figures, 
however,  stood  on  the  beginning  of  the  stone  foot- 
way, and  seemed  to  be  cautiously  advancing  down 
it.  The  glare  of  a  chance  lantern  lit  up  the  faces  of 
the  two  foremost.  One  face  wore  a  black  half- 
mask,  and  under  it  the  mouth  was  twisting  about  in 
such  a  madness  of  nerves  that  the  black  tuft  of 
beard  wriggled  round  and  round  like  a  restless, 
living  thing.  The  other  was  the  red  face  and  white 
moustache  of  Colonel  Ducroix.  They  were  in 
earnest  consultation. 

"  Yes,  he  is  gone  too,"  said  the  Professor,  and 
sat  down  on  a  stone.  "  Everything's  gone.  I'm 
gone!  I  can't  trust  my  own  bodily  machinery.  I 
feel  as  if  my  own  hand  might  fly  up  and  strike 
me." 

"  When  my  hand  flies  up,"  said  Syme,  "  it  will 
strike  somebody  else,"  and  he  strode  along  the  pier 
towards  the  Colonel,  the  sword  in  one  hand  and  the 
lantern  in  the  other. 

As  if  to  destroy  the  last  hope  or  doubt,  the 
Colonel,  who  saw  him  coming,  pointed  his  revolver 
at  him  and  fired.  The  shot  missed  Symc,  but 
struck   his   sword,   breaking   it   short   at   the   hilt. 


224 


THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 


Syme  rushed  on,  and  swung  the  iron  lantern  above 
his  head. 

"  Judas  before  Herod !  "  he  said,  and  struck  the 
Colonel  down  upon  the  stones.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  Secretary,  whose  frightful  mouth  was  almost 
foaming  now,  and  held  the  lamp  high  with  so  rigid 
and  arresting  a  gesture,  that  the  man  was,  as  it 
were,  frozen  for  a  moment,  and  forced  to  hear. 

"  Do  you  see  this  lantern  ? "  cried  Syme  in  a 
terrible  voice.  "  Do  you  see  the  cross  carved  on 
it,  and  the  flame  inside?  You  did  not  make  it. 
You  did  not  light  it.  Better  men  than  you,  men 
who  could  believe  and  obey,  twisted  the  entrails  of 
iron  and  preserved  the  legend  of  fire.  There  is  not 
a  street  you  walk  on,  there  is  not  a  thread  you 
wear,  that  was  not  made  as  this  lantern  was,  by 
denying  your  philosophy  of  dirt  and  rats.  You 
can  make  nothing.  You  can  only  destroy.  You 
will  destroy  mankind ;  you  will  destroy  the  world. 
Let  that  suflfice  you.  Yet  this  one  old  Christian 
lantern  you  shall  not  destroy.  It  shall  go  where  your 
empire  of  apes  will  never  have  the  wit  to  find  it." 

He  struck  the  Secretary  once  with  the  lantern  so 
that  he  staggered ;  and  then,  whirling  it  twice  round 
his  head,  sent  it  flying  far  out  to  sea,  where  it  flared 
like  a  roaring  rocket  and  fell. 


THE  EARTH  IN  ANARCHY  225 

"  Swords  !  "  shouted  Syme,  turning  his  flaming 
face  to  the  three  behind  him.  "  Let  us  charge  these 
dogs,  for  our  time  has  come  to  die." 

His  three  companions  came  after  him  sword  in 
hand.  Syme's  sword  was  broken,  but  he  rent  a 
bludgeon  from  the  fist  of  a  fisherman,  flinging  him 
down.  In  a  moment  they  would  have  flung  them- 
selves upon  the  face  of  the  mob  and  perished,  when 
an  interruption  came.  The  Secretary,  ever  since 
Syme's  speech,  had  stood  with  his  hand  to  his 
stricken  head  as  if  dazed ;  now  he  suddenly  pulled 
off  his  black  mask. 

The  pale  face  thus  peeled  in  the  \amplight  re- 
vealed not  so  much  rage  as  astonishment.  He  put 
up  his  hand  with  an  anxious  authority. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Syme, 
I  hardly  think  you  understand  your  position.  I 
arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the  law." 

"  Of  the  law  ? "  said  Syme,  and  dropped  his 
stick. 

"  Certainly  !  "  said  the  Secretary.  "  I  am  a  de- 
tective from  Scotland  Yard,"  and  he  took  a  small 
blue  card  from  his  pocket. 

"  And  what  do  you  suppose  we  are?  "  asked  the 
Professor,  and  threw  up  his  arms. 

"  You,"  said  the  Secretary  stiffly,  "  are,  as  I  know 


226        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

for  a  fact,  members  of  the  Supreme  Anarchist 
Council.     Disguised  as  one  of  you,  I " 

Dr.  Bull  tossed  his  sword  into  the  sea. 

"  There  never  was  any  Supreme  Anarchist  Coun- 
cil," he  said.  "  We  were  all  a  lot  of  silly  policemen 
looking  at  each  other.  And  all  these  nice  people  who 
have  been  peppering  us  with  shot  thought  we  were 
the  dynamiters.  I  knew  I  couldn't  be  wrong  about 
the  mob,"  he  said,  beaming  over  the  enormous 
multitude,  which  stretched  away  to  the  distance  on 
both  sides.  "  Vulgar  people  are  never  mad.  I'm 
vulgar  myself,  and  I  know.  I  am  now  going  on 
shore  to  stand  a  drink  to  everybody  here." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE    PURSUIT    OF   THE    PRESIDENT 

Next  morning  five  bewildered  but  hilarious 
people  took  the  boat  for  Dover.  The  poor  old 
Colonel  might  have  had  some  cause  to  complain, 
having  been  fii-st  forced  to  fight  for  two  factions  that 
didn't  exist,  and  then  knocked  down  with  an  iron 
lantern.  But  he  was  a  magnanimous  old  gentle- 
man, and  being  much  relieved  that  neither  party 
had  anything  to  do  with  dynamite,  he  saw  them  off 
on  the  pier  with  great  geniality. 

The  five  reconciled  detectives  had  a  hundred 
details  to  explain  to  each  other.  The  Secretary 
had  to  tell  Syme  how  they  had  come  to  wear 
masks  originally  in  order  to  approach  the  supposed 
enemy  as  fellow-conspirators  ;  Syme  had  to  explain 
how  they  had  fled  with  such  swiftness  through  a 
civilised  country,  l^ut  above  all  these  matters  of 
detail  which  could  be  explained,  rose  the  central 
mountain  of  the  matter  that  they  could  not  explain. 
What  did  it  all  mean?     If  they  were  all  harmless 

officers,  what  was  Sunday?     If  he  had  not  seized 

227 


228        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

the  world,  what  on  earth  had  he  been  up  to  ? 
Inspector  RatcHffe  was  still  gloomy  about  this. 

"  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  old  Sunday's  little 
game  any  more  than  you  can,"  he  said.  "  But 
whatever  else  Sunday  is,  he  isn't  a  blameless  citizen. 
Damn  it !  do  you  remember  his  face  ?  " 

"  I  grant  you,"  answered  Syme,  "  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  forget  it." 

•'  Well,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  I  suppose  we  can 
find  out  soon,  for  to-morrow  we  have  our  next 
general  meeting.  You  will  excuse  me,"  he  said, 
with  a  rather  ghastly  smile,  "  for  being  well  ac- 
quainted with  my  secretarial  duties." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  said  the  Professor 
reflectively.  "  I  suppose  we  might  find  it  out  from 
him ;  but  I  confess  that  I  should  feel  a  bit  afraid  of 
asking  Sunday  who  he  really  is." 

"  Why,"  asked  the  Secretary,  "  for  fear  of 
bombs  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  Professor,  "  for  fear  he  might  tell 
me." 

"  Let  us  have  some  drinks,"  said  Dr.  Bull,  after  a 
silence. 

Throughout  their  whole  journey  by  boat  and 
train  they  were  highly  convivial,  but  they  instinc- 
tively kept  together.     Dr.  Bull,  who  had   always 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      229 

been  the  optimist  of  the  party,  endeavoured  to 
persuade  the  other  four  that  the  whole  company 
could  take  the  same  hansom  cab  from  Victoria  ;  but 
this  was  overruled,  and  they  went  in  a  four- 
wheeler,  with  Dr.  Bull  on  the  box,  singing.  They 
finished  their  journey  at  an  hotel  in  Piccadilly  Cir- 
cus, so  as  to  be  close  to  the  early  breakfast  next 
morning  in  Leicester  Square.  Yet  even  then  the 
adventures  of  the  day  were  not  entirely  over.  Dr. 
Bull,  discontented  with  the  general  proposal  to  go 
to  bed,  had  strolled  out  of  the  hotel  at  about  eleven 
to  see  and  taste  some  of  the  beauties  of  London. 
Twenty  minutes  afterwards,  however,  he  came  back 
and  made  quite  a  clamour  in  the  hall.  Syme,  who 
tried  at  first  to  soothe  him,  was  forced  at  last  to 
listen  to  his  communication  with  quite  new  at- 
tention. 

"  I  tell  you  I've  seen  him  !  "  said  Dr.  Bull,  with 
thick  emphasis. 

"  Whom  ? "  asked  Syme  quickly.  "  Not  the 
President  ?  " 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that,"  said  Dr.  l^ull,  with  un- 
necessary laughter,  "  not  so  bad  as  that.  I've  got 
him  here." 

"  Got  whom  here  ?  "  asked  Syme  impatiently. 

"  Hairy  man,"  said  the  other  lucidly,  "  man  that 


230        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

used  to  be  hairy  man — Gogol.  Here  he  is,"  and 
he  pulled  forward  by  a  reluctant  elbow  the  identical 
young  man  who  five  days  before  had  marched  out 
of  the  Council  with  thin  red  hair  and  a  pale  face, 
the  first  of  all  the  sham  anarchists  who  had  been 
exposed. 

•«  Why  do  you  worry  with  me  ?  "  he  cried.  "  You 
have  expelled  me  as  a  spy." 

"  We  are  all  spies  !  "  whispered  Syme. 

"  We're  all  spies  ! "  shouted  Dr.  Bull.  "  Come 
and  have  a  drink." 

Next  morning  the  battalion  of  the  reunited  six 
marched  stolidly  towards  the  hotel  in  Leicester 
Square. 

"  This  is  more  cheerful,"  said  Dr.  Bull ;  "  we 
are  six  men  going  to  ask  one  man  what  he 
means." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  bit  queerer  than  that,"  said  Syme. 
"<  I  think  it  is  six  men  going  to  ask  one  man  what 
they  mean." 

They  turned  in  silence  into  the  Square,  and 
though  the  hotel  was  in  the  opposite  corner,  they 
saw  at  once  the  little  balcony  and  a  figure  that 
looked  too  big  for  it.  He  Avas  sitting  alone  with 
bent  head,  poring  over  a  newspaper.  But  all  his 
councillors,  who  had  come  to  vote  him  down,  crossed 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      231 

that  square  as  if  they  were  watched  out  of  heaven 
by  a  hundred  eyes. 

They  had  disputed  much  upon  their  poHcy,  about 
whether  they  should  leave  the  unmasked  Gogol 
without  and  begin  diplomatically,  or  whether  they 
should  bring  him  in  and  blow  up  the  gunpowder  at 
once.  The  influence  of  Syme  and  Bull  prevailed  for 
the  latter  course,  though  the  Secretary  to  the  last 
asked  them  why  they  attacked  Sunday  so  rashly. 

"  My  reason  is  quite  simple,"  said  Syme.  "  I 
attack  him  rashly  because  I  am  afraid  of  him." 

They  followed  Syme  up  the  dark  stair  in  silence, 
and  they  all  came  out  simultaneously  into  the  broad 
sunlight  of  the  morning  and  the  broad  sunlight  of 
Sunday's  smile. 

"  Delightful !  "  he  said.  "  So  pleased  to  see  you 
all.  What  an  exquisite  day  it  is.  Is  the  Czar 
dead  ?  " 

The  Secretary,  who  happened  to  be  foremost, 
drew  himself  together  for  a  dignified  outburst. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said  sternly,  "  there  has  been  no 
massacre.  I  bring  you  news  of  no  such  disgusting 
spectacles." 

"  Disgusting  spectacles  ?  "  repeated  the  President, 
with  a  bright,  inquiring  smile.  "  You  mean  Dr.  Bull's 
spectacles  ?  " 


232       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

The  Secretary  choked  for  a  moment,  and  the 
President  went  on  with  a  sort  of  smooth  appeal  — 

"  Of  course,  we  all  have  our  opinions  and  even 
our  eyes,  but  really  to  call  them  disgusting  before 
the  man  himself " 

Dr.  Bull  tore  off  his  spectacles  and  broke  them 
on  the  table. 

"  My  spectacles  are  blackguardly,"  he  said,  "  but 
I'm  not.     Look  at  my  face." 

"  I  dare  say  it's  the  sort  of  face  that  grows  on 
one,"  said  the  President,  "  in  fact,  it  grows  on  you ; 
and  who  am  I  to  quarrel  with  the  wild  fruits  upon 
the  Tree  of  Life  ?  I  dare  say  it  will  grow  on  me 
some  day." 

"  We  have  no  time  for  tomfoolery,"  said  the  Sec- 
retary, breaking  in  savagely.  "  We  have  come  to 
know  what  all  this  means.  Who  are  you  ?  What 
are  you  ?  Why  did  you  get  us  all  here  ?  Do  you 
know  who  and  what  we  are  ?  Are  you  a  half-witted 
man  playing  the  conspirator,  or  are  you  a  clever 
man  playing  the  fool?     Answer  me,  I  tell  you." 

"  Candidates,"  murmured  Sunday,  "  are  only  re- 
quired to  answer  eight  out  of  the  seventeen  ques- 
tions on  the  paper.  As  far  as  I  can  make  out,  you 
want  me  to  tell  you  what  I  am,  and  what  you  are, 
and  what  this  table  is,  and  what  this  Council  is,  and 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      233 

what  this  world  is  for  all  I  know.  Well,  I  will  go 
so  far  as  to  rend  the  veil  of  one  m)'ster)'.  If  you 
want  to  know  what  you  are,  you  are  a  set  of  highly 
well-intentioned  young  jackasses." 

"  And  you,"  said  Syme,  leaning  forward,  "  what 
are  you  ?  " 

"  I  ?  What  am  I  ?  "  roared  the  President,  and  he 
rose  slowly  to  an  incredible  height,  like  some  enor- 
mous wave  about  to  arch  above  them  and  break. 
"You  want  to  know  what  I  am,  do  you?  BuH, 
you  are  a  man  of  science.  Grub  in  the  roots  of 
those  trees  and  find  out  the  truth  about  them. 
Syme,  you  are  a  poet.  Stare  at  those  morning 
clouds,  and  tell  me  or  any  one  the  truth  about 
morning  clouds.  But  I  tell  you  this,  that  you  will 
have  found  out  the  truth  of  the  last  tree  and  the 
topmost  cloud  before  the  truth  about  me.  You 
will  understand  the  sea,  and  I  shall  be  still  a  riddle » 
you  shall  know  what  the  stars  are,  and  not  know 
what  I  am.  Since  the  beginning  of  the  world  all 
men  have  hunted  me  like  a  wolf — kings  and  sages, 
and  poets  and  law-givers,  all  the  churches,  and  all 
the  philosophies.  But  I  have  never  been  caught 
yet,  and  the  skies  will  fall  in  the  time  I  turn  to  bay. 
I  have  given  them  a  good  run  for  their  money,  and 
I  will  now." 


234       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Before  one  of  them  could  move,  the  monstrous 
man  had  swung  himself  like  some  huge  ourang- 
outang  over  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony.  Yet 
before  he  dropped  he  pulled  himself  up  again  as  on 
a  horizontal  bar,  and  thrusting  his  great  chin  over 
the  edge  of  the  balcony,  said  solemnly — 

"  There's  one  thing  I'll  tell  you  though  about 
who  I  am.  I  am  the  man  in  the  dark  room,  who 
made  you  all  poHcemen." 

With  that  he  fell  from  the  balcony,  bouncing  on 
the  stones  below  like  a  great  ball  of  india-rubber, 
and  went  bounding  off  towards  the  corner  of  the 
Alhambra,  where  he  hailed  a  hansom-cab  and  sprang 
inside  it.  The  six  detectives  had  been  standing 
thunderstruck  and  livid  in  the  light  of  his  last  asser- 
tion ;  but  when  he  disappeared  into  the  cab,  Syme's 
practical  senses  returned  to  him,  and  leaping  over 
the  balcony  so  recklessly  as  almost  to  break  his  legs, 
he  called  another  cab. 

He  and  Bull  sprang  into  the  cab  together,  the 
Professor  and  the  Inspector  into  another,  while  the 
Secretary  and  the  late  Gogol  scrambled  into  a  third 
just  in  time  to  pursue  the  flying  Syme,  who  was 
pursuing  the  flying  President.  Sunday  led  them  a 
wild  chase  towards  the  northwest,  his  cabman, 
evidently  under  the  influence  of  more  than  common 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      235 

inducements,  urging  the  horse  at  breakneck  speed. 
But  Syme  was  in  no  mood  for  delicacies,  and  he 
stood  up  in  his  own  cab  shouting,  "  Stop  thief !  " 
until  crowds  ran  along  beside  his  cab,  and  police- 
men began  to  stop  and  ask  questions.  All  this  had 
its  influence  upon  the  President's  cabman,  who  be- 
gan to  look  dubious,  and  to  slow  down  to  a  trot. 
He  opened  the  trap  to  talk  reasonably  to  his  fare, 
and  in  so  doing  let  the  long  whip  droop  over  the 
front  of  the  cab.  Sunday  leant  forward,  seized  it, 
and  jerked  it  violently  out  of  the  man's  hand.  Then 
standing  up  in  front  of  the  cab  himself,  he  lashed 
the  horse  and  roared  aloud,  so  that  they  went  down 
the  streets  like  a  flying  storm.  Through  street  after 
street  and  square  after  square  went  whirling  this  pre- 
posterous vehicle,  in  which  the  fare  was  urging 
the  horse  and  the  driver  trying  desperately  to  stop 
it.  The  other  three  cabs  came  after  it  (if  the 
phrase  be  permissible  of  a  cab)  like  panting  hounds. 
Shops  and  streets  shot  by  like  rattling  arrows. 

At  the  highest  ecstasy  of  speed,  Sunday  turned 
round  on  the  splashboard  where  he  stood,  and  stick- 
ing his  great  grinning  head  out  of  the  cab,  with 
white  hair  whistling  in  the  wind,  he  made  a  horrible 
face  at  his  pursuers,  like  some  colossal  urchin.  Then 
raising  his  right  hand  swiftly,  he  flung  a  ball  of  paper 


236        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

in  Syme's  face  and  vanished.  Syme  caught  the 
thing  while  instinctively  warding  it  off,  and  dis- 
covered that  it  consisted  of  two  crumpled  papers. 
One  was  addressed  to  himself,  and  the  other  to  Dr. 
Bull,  with  a  very  long,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  partly 
ironical,  string  of  letters  after  his  name.  Dr.  Bull's 
address  was,  at  any  rate,  considerably  longer  than 
his  communication,  for  the  communication  consisted 
entirely  of  the  words  :  — 

"  What  about  Martin  Tupper  now  ?  " 

"  What  does  the  old  maniac  mean  ?  "  asked  Bull, 
staring  at  the  words.  '•  What  does  yours  say, 
Syme  ?  " 

Syme's  message  was,  at  any  rate,  longer,  and  ran 
as  follows :  — 

*'  No  one  would  regret  anything  in  the  nature  of 
an  interference  by  the  Archdeacon  more  than  I. 
I  trust  it  will  not  come  to  that.  But,  for  the  last 
time,  where  are  your  goloshes  ?  The  thing  is  too 
bad,  especially  after  what  uncle  said." 

The  President's  cabman  seemed  to  be  regaining 
some  control  over  his  horse,  and  the  pursuers 
gained  a  little  as  they  swept  round  into  the  Edgware 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      237 

Road.  And  here  there  occurred  what  seemed  to  the 
aUies  a  providential  stoppage.  Traffic  of  every  kind 
was  swerving  to  right  or  left  or  stopping,  for  down 
the  long  road  was  coming  the  unmistakable  roar 
announcing  the  fire-engine,  which  in  a  few  seconds 
went  by  like  a  brazen  thunder-bolt.  But  quick  as 
it  went  by,  Sunday  had  bounded  out  of  his  cab, 
sprung  at  the  fire-engine,  caught  it,  slung  himself 
on  to  it,  and  was  seen  as  he  disappeared  in  the  noisy 
distance  talking  to  the  astonished  fireman  with  ex- 
planatory gestures. 

"  After  him  !  "  howled  Syme.  "  He  can't  go 
astray  now.     There's  no  mistaking  a  fire-engine." 

The  three  cabmen,  who  had  been  stunned  for  a 
moment,  whipped  up  their  horses  and  slightly  de- 
creased the  distance  between  themselves  and  their 
disappearing  prey.  The  President  acknowledged 
this  proximity  by  coming  to  the  back  of  the  car, 
bowing  repeatedly,  kissing  his  hand,  and  finally 
flinging  a  neatly-folded  note  into  the  bosom  of 
Inspector  Ratcliffe.  When  that  gentleman  opened 
it,  not  without  impatience,  he  found  it  contained 
the  words  :  — 

"  Fly  at  once.  The  truth  about  your  trouser- 
stretchers  is  known. — A  Friend." 


238       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

The  fire-engine  had  struck  still  farther  to  the 
north,  into  a  region  that  they  did  not  recognise ; 
and  as  it  ran  by  a  line  of  high  railings  shadowed 
with  trees,  the  six  friends  were  startled,  but  some- 
what relieved,  to  see  the  President  leap  from  the 
fire-engine,  though  whether  through  another  whim 
or  the  increasing  protest  of  his  entertainers  they 
could  not  see.  Before  the  three  cabs,  however, 
could  reach  up  to  the  spot,  he  had  gone  up  the  high 
railings  like  a  huge  grey  cat,  tossed  himself  over, 
and  vanished  in  a  darkness  of  leaves. 

Syme  with  a  furious  gesture  stopped  his  cab, 
jumped  out,  and  sprang  also  to  the  escalade.  When 
he  had  one  leg  over  the  fence  and  his  friends  were 
following,  he  turned  a  face  on  them  which  shone 
quite  pale  in  the  shadow. 

"  What  place  can  this  be  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Can  it 
be  the  old  devil's  house  ?  I've  heard  he  has  a  house 
in  North  London." 

"  All  the  better,"  said  the  Secretary  grimly,  plant- 
ing a  foot  in  a  foothold,  "  we  shall  find  him  at  home." 

"  No,  but  it  isn't  that,"  said  Syme,  knitting  his 
brows.  "  I  hear  the  most  horrible  noises,  like  devils 
laughing  and  sneezing  and  blowing  their  devilish 
noses ! " 

"  His  dogs  barking,  of  course,"  said  the  Secretary. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      239 

"  Why  not  say  his  black-beetles  barking ! "  said 
Syme  furiously,  "  snails  barking !  geraniums  bark- 
ing !     Did  you  ever  hear  a  dog  bark  like  that  ?  " 

He  held  up  his  hand,  and  there  came  out  of  the 
thicket  a  long,  growling  roar  that  seemed  to  get 
under  the  skin  and  freeze  the  flesh — a  low  thrilling 
roar  that  made  a  throbbing  in  the  air  all  about  them. 

"  The  dogs  of  Sunday  would  be  no  ordinary  dogs," 
said  Gogol,  and  shuddered. 

Syme  had  jumped  down  on  the  other  side,  but  he 
still  stood  listening  impatiently. 

"  Well,  listen  to  that,"  he  said,  "  is  that  a  dog — 
anybody's  dog?  " 

There  broke  upon  their  ear  a  hoarse  screaming 
as  of  things  protesting  and  clamouring  in  sudden 
pain  ;  and  then,  far  off  like  an  echo,  what  sounded 
like  a  long  nasal  trumpet. 

"  Well,  his  house  ought  to  be  hell !  "  said  the  Sec- 
retary; "and  if  it  is  hell,  I'm  going  in  !  "  and  he 
sprang  over  the  tall  railings  almost  with  one  swing. 

The  others  followed.  They  broke  through  a 
tangle  of  plants  and  shrubs,  and  came  out  on  an 
open  path.  Nothing  was  in  sight,  but  Dr.  Bull 
suddenly  struck  his  hands  together. 

"  Why,  you  asses,"  he  cried,  "  it's  the  Zoo  !  " 

As  they  were  looking  round  wildly  for  any  trace 


240       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

of  their  wild  quarry,  a  keeper  in  uniform  came  run- 
ning along  the  path  with  a  man  in  plain  clothes. 

"  Has  it  come  this  way  ?  "  gasped  the  keeper. 

"  Has  what  ?  "  asked  Syme. 

"  The  elephant ! "  cried  the  keeper.  "An  elephant 
has  gone  mad  and  run  away !  " 

"  He  has  run  away  with  an  old  gentleman,"  said 
the  other  stranger  breathlessly,  "  a  poor  old  gentle- 
man with  white  hair  !  " 

"  What  sort  of  old  gentleman  ? "  asked  Syme, 
with  great  curiosity. 

"  A  very  large  and  fat  old  gentleman  in  light 
grey  clothes,"  said  the  keeper  eagerly. 

"  Well,"  said  Syme,  "  if  he's  that  particular  kind 
of  old  gentleman,  if  you're  quite  sure  that  he's  a 
large  and  fat  old  gentleman  in  grey  clothes,  you 
may  take  my  word  for  it  that  the  elephant  has  not 
run  away  with  him.  He  has  run  away  with  the 
elephant.  The  elephant  is  not  made  by  God  that 
could  run  away  with  him  if  he  did  not  consent  to 
the  elopement.     And,  by  thunder,  there  he  is  !  " 

There  was  no  doubt  about  it  this  time.  Clean 
across  the  space  of  grass,  about  two  hundred  yards 
away,  with  a  crowd  screaming  and  scampering  vainly 
at  his  heels,  went  a  huge  grey  elephant  at  an  awful 
stride,  with  his  trunk  thrown  out  as  rigid  as  a  ship's 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      241 

bowsprit,  and  trumpeting  like  the  trumpet  of  doom. 
On  the  back  of  the  bellowing  and  plunging  animal 
sat  President  Sunday  with  all  the  placidity  of  a 
sultan,  but  goading  the  animal  to  a  furious  speed 
with  some  sharp  object  in  his  hand. 

"  Stop  him  !  "  screamed  the  populace.  "  He'll  be 
out  of  the  gate  ! " 

"  Stop  a  landslide ! "  said  the  keeper.  "  He  is 
out  of  the  gate  ! " 

And  even  as  he  spoke,  a  final  crash  and  roar  of 
terror  announced  that  the  great  grey  elephant  had 
broken  out  of  the  gates  of  the  Zoological  Gardens, 
and  was  careering  down  Albany  Street  like  a  new 
and  swift  sort  of  omnibus. 

"  Great  Lord  !  "  cried  Bull,  "  I  never  knew  an 
elephant  could  go  so  fast.  Well,  it  must  be  hansom- 
cabs  again  if  we  are  even  to  keep  him  in  sight." 

As  they  raced  along  to  the  gate  out  of  which  the 
elephant  had  vanished,  Syme  felt  a  glaring  panorama 
of  the  strange  animals  in  the  cages  which  they 
passed.  Afterwards  he  thought  it  queer  that  he 
should  have  seen  them  so  clearly.  He  remembered 
especially  seeing  pelicans,  with  their  preposterous, 
pendant  throats.  He  wondered  why  the  pelican 
was  the  symbol  of  charity,  except  it  was  that  it 
wanted  a  good  deal  of  charity  to  admire  a  pelican. 


242        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

He  remembered  a  hornbill,  which  was  simply  a  huge 
yellow  beak  with  a  small  bird  tied  on  behind  it. 
The  whole  gave  him  a  sensation,  the  vividness  of 
which  he  could  not  explain,  that  Nature  was  always 
making  quite  mysterious  jokes.  Sunday  had  told 
them  that  they  would  understand  him  when 
they  had  understood  the  stars.  He  wondered 
whether  even  the  archangels  understood  the  horn- 
bill. 

The  six  unhappy  detectives  flung  themselves  into 
cabs  and  followed  the  elephant,  sharing  the  terror 
which  he  spread  through  the  long  stretch  of  the 
streets.  This  time  Sunday  did  not  turn  round,  but 
offered  them  the  solid  stretch  of  his  unconscious 
back,  which  maddened  them,  if  possible,  more  than 
his  previous  mockeries.  Just  before  they  came  to 
Baker  Street,  however,  he  was  seen  to  throw  some- 
thing far  up  into  the  air,  as  a  boy  does  a  ball  mean- 
ing to  catch  it  again.  But  at  their  rate  of  racing 
it  fell  far  behind,  just  by  the  cab  containing  Gogol ; 
and  in  faint  hope  of  a  clue  or  for  some  impulse 
unexplainable,  he  stopped  his  cab  so  as  to  pick  it 
up.  It  was  addressed  to  himself,  and  was  quite  a 
bulky  parcel.  On  examination,  however,  its  bulk 
was  found  to  consist  of  thirty -three  pieces  of  paper 
of  no  value  wrapped  one  round  the  other.     When 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      243 

the  last  covering  was  torn  away  it  reduced  itself  to 
a  small  slip  of  paper,  on  which  was  written : — 

"  The  word,  I  fancy,  should  be  '  pink.'  " 

The  man  once  known  as  Gogol  said  nothing,  but 
the  movements  of  his  hands  and  feet  were  like 
those  of  a  man  urging  a  horse  to  renewed  efforts. 

Through  street  after  street,  through  district  after 
district,  went  the  prodigy  of  the  flying  elephant, 
calling  crowds  to  every  window,  and  driving  the 
traffic  left  and  right.  And  still  through  all  this 
insane  publicity  the  three  cabs  toiled  after  it,  until 
they  came  to  be  regarded  as  part  of  a  procession, 
and  perhaps  the  advertisement  of  a  circus.  They 
went  at  such  a  rate  that  distances  were  shortened 
beyond  belief,  and  Syme  saw  the  Albert  Hall  in 
Kensington  when  he  thought  that  he  was  still  in 
Paddington.  The  animal's  pace  was  even  more 
fast  and  free  through  the  empty,  aristocratic  streets 
of  South  Kensington,  and  he  finally  headed  to- 
wards that  part  of  the  sky-line  where  the  enormous 
Wheel  of  Earl's  Court  stood  up  in  the  sky.  The 
wheel  grew  larger  and  larger,  till  it  filled  heaven 
like  the  wheel  of  stars. 

The  beast  outstripped  the  cabs.  They  lost  him 
round  several  corners,  and  when  they  came  to  one 


244       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

of  the  gates  of  the  Earl's  Court  Exhibition  they 
found  themselves  finally  blocked.  In  front  of  them 
was  an  enormous  crowd ;  in  the  midst  of  it  was  an 
enormous  elephant,  heaving  and  shuddering  as 
such  shapeless  creatures  do.  But  the  President 
had  disappeared. 

"  Where  has  he  gone  to  ?  "  asked  Syme,  shpping 
to  the  ground. 

"  Gentleman  rushed  into  the  Exhibition,  sir ! " 
said  an  official  in  a  dazed  manner.  Then  he 
added  in  an  injured  voice:  "Funny  gentleman, 
sir.  Asked  me  to  hold  his  horse,  and  gave  me 
this." 

He  held  out  with  distaste  a  piece  of  folded  paper, 
addressed :  "  To  the  Secretary  of  the  Central 
Anarchist  Council." 

The  Secretary,  raging,  rent  it  open,  and  found 
written  inside  it : — 


"  When  the  herring  runs  a  mile, 
Let  the  Secretary  smile; 
When  the  herring  tries  to  fly, 
Let  the  Secretary  die. 

Rustic  Proverb." 


*'  Why  the  eternal  crikey,"  began  the  Secretary, 
«'  did  you  let  the  man  in  ?     Do  people  commonly 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  PRESIDENT      245 

come  to  your  Exhibition  riding  on  mad  elephants  ? 
Do " 

"  Look  !  "  shouted  Syme  suddenly.  "  Look  over 
there!" 

"  Look  at  what  ?  "  asked  the  Secretary  savagely. 

"  Look  at  the  captive  balloon  !  "  said  Syme,  and 
pointed  in  a  frenzy. 

"  Why  the  blazes  should  I  look  at  a  captive 
balloon  ? "  demanded  the  Secretary.  "  What  is 
there  queer  about  a  captive  balloon  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  said  Syme,  "  except  that  it  isn't 
captive ! " 

They  all  turned  their  eyes  to  where  the  balloon 
swung  and  swelled  above  the  Exhibition  on  a 
string,  like  a  child's  balloon.  A  second  afterwards 
the  string  came  in  two  just  under  the  car,  and  the 
balloon,  broken  loose,  floated  away  with  the  free- 
dom of  a  soap  bubble. 

"  Ten  thousand  devils  ! "  shrieked  the  Secretary. 
"  He's  got  into  it ! "  and  he  shook  his  fists  at  the 
sky. 

The  balloon,  borne  by  some  chance  wind,  came 
right  above  them,  and  they  could  sec  the  great 
white  head  of  the  President  peering  over  the  side 
and  looking  benevolently  down  on  them. 

"God  bless   my  soul !"  said  the  Professor  with 


246       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

the  elderly  manner  that  he  could  never  disconnect 
from  his  bleached  beard  and  parchment  face. 
"  God  bless  my  soul !  I  seemed  to  fancy  that 
something  fell  on  the  top  of  my  hat ! " 

He  put  up  a  trembling  hand  and  took  from  that 
shelf  a  piece  of  twisted  paper,  which  he  opened 
absently,  only  to  find  it  inscribed  with  a  true  lover's 
knot  and  the  words  : — 

"  Your  beauty  has  not  left  me  indifferent. — 
From  Little  Snowdrop." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  Syme  said, 
biting  his  beard  — 

"  I'm  not  beaten  yet.  The  blasted  thing  must 
come  down  somewhere.     Let's  follow  it !  " 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  SIX   PHILOSOPHERS 

Across  green  fields,  and  breaking  through  bloom- 
ing hedges,  toiled  six  draggled  detectives,  about  five 
miles  out  of  London.  The  optimist  of  the  party- 
had  at  first  proposed  that  they  should  follow  the 
balloon  across  South  England  in  hansom-cabs.  But 
he  was  ultimately  convinced  of  the  persistent  re- 
fusal of  the  balloon  to  follow  the  roads,  and  the  still 
more  persistent  refusal  of  the  cabmen  to  follow  the 
balloon.  Consequently  the  tireless  though  ex- 
asperated travellers  broke  through  black  thickets 
and  ploughed  through  ploughed  fields  till  each  was 
turned  into  a  figure  too  outrageous  to  be  mistaken 
for  a  tramp.  Those  green  hills  of  Surrey  saw  the 
final  collapse  and  tragedy  of  the  admirable  light 
grey  suit  in  which  Syme  had  set  out  from  Saffron 
Park.  His  silk  hat  was  broken  over  his  nose  by  a 
swinging  bough,  his  coat-tails  were  torn  to  the 
shoulder  by  arresting  thorns,  the  clay  of  England  was 
splashed  up  to  his  collar  ;  but  he  still  carried  his 
yellow  beard  forward  with  a  silent  and  furious  de- 

247 


248       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

termination,  and  his  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  that 
floating  ball  of  gas,  which  in  the  full  flush  of  sunset 
seemed  coloured  like  a  sunset  cloud. 

"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  it  is  very  beautiful !  " 

"  It  is  singularly  and  strangely  beautiful ! "  said 
the  Professor.  "  I  wish  the  beastly  gas-bag  would 
burst !  " 

"  No,"  said  Dr.  Bull,  "  I  hope  it  won't.  It  might 
hurt  the  old  boy." 

"  Hurt  him ! "  said  the  vindictive  Professor, 
"  hurt  him  !  Not  as  much  as  I'd  hurt  him  if  I 
could  get  up  with  him.     Little  Snowdrop  ! "  ' 

"  I  don't  want  him  hurt,  somehow,"  said  Dr. 
Bull. 

"  What ! "  cried  the  Secretary  bitterly.  "  Do  you 
believe  all  that  tale  about  his  being  our  man  in  the 
dark  room  ?     Sunday  would  say  he  was  anybody." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  believe  it  or  not,"  said 
Dr.  Bull.  "  But  it  isn't  that  that  I  mean.  I  can't 
wish  old  Sunday's  balloon  to  burst  because " 

"  Well,"  said  Syme  impatiently,  "  because?" 

"  Well,  because  he's  so  jolly  like  a  balloon  him- 
self," said  Dr.  Bull  desperately.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand a  word  of  all  that  idea  of  his  being  the  same 
man  who  gave  us  all  our  blue  cards.  It  seems  to 
make  everything  nonsense.     But  I  don't  care  who 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  249 

knows  it,  I  always  had  a  sympathy  for  old  Sunday 
himself,  wicked  as  he  was.  Just  as  if  he  was  a  great 
bouncing  baby.  How  can  1  explain  what  my  queer 
sympathy  was  ?  It  didn't  prevent  my  fighting  him 
like  hell !  Shall  I  make  it  clear  if  I  say  that  I  hked 
him  because  he  was  so  fat  ?  " 

"  You  will  not,"  said  the  Secretary. 

"  I've  got  it  now,"  cried  Bull,  "  it  was  because  he 
was  so  fat  and  so  light.  Just  like  a  balloon.  We 
always  think  of  fat  people  as  heavy,  but  he  could 
have  danced  against  a  sylph.  I  see  now  what  I 
mean.  Moderate  strength  is  shown  in  violence, 
supreme  strength  is  shown  in  levity.  It  was  like 
the  old  speculations — what  would  happen  if  an 
elephant  could  leap  up  in  the  sky  like  a  grass- 
hopper ?" 

"  Our  elephant,"  said  Syme,  looking  upwards, 
"  has  leapt  into  the  sky  like  a  grasshopper." 

"  And  somehow,"  concluded  Bull,  "  that's  why  I 
can't  help  liking  old  Sunday.  No,  it's  not  an  ad- 
miration of  force,  or  any  silly  thing  like  that. 
There  is  a  kind  of  gaiety  in  the  thing,  as  if  he  were 
bursting  with  some  good  news.  Haven't  you  some- 
times felt  it  on  a  spring  day  ?  You  know  Nature 
plays  tricks,  but  somehow  that  day  proves  they  are 
good-natured  tricks.     I  never  read  the  Bible  myself. 


250        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

but  that  part  they  laugh  at  is  Hteral  truth,  *  Why- 
leap  ye,  ye  high  hills  ?  '  The  hills  do  leap — at  least, 
they  try  to.  .  .  .  Why  do  I  like  Sunday  ? 
.  .  .  how  can  I  tell  you  ? .  .  .  because  he's 
such  a  Bounder." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  the  Secretary 
said  in  a  curious,  strained  voice  — 

"  You  do  not  know  Sunday  at  all.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  you  are  better  than  I,  and  do  not  know  hell. 
I  was  a  fierce  fellow,  and  a  trifle  morbid  from  the 
first.  The  man  who  sits  in  darkness,  and  who  chose 
us  all,  chose  me  because  I  had  all  the  crazy  look  of 
a  conspirator — because  my  smile  went  crooked,  and 
my  eyes  were  gloomy,  even  when  I  smiled.  But 
there  must  have  been  something  in  me  that  answered 
to  the  nerves  in  all  these  anarchic  men.  For  when 
I  first  saw  Sunday  he  expressed  to  me,  not  your 
airy  vitality,  but  something  both  gross  and  sad  in 
the  Nature  of  Things.  I  found  him  smoking  in  a 
twilight  room,  a  room  with  brown  blind  down, 
infinitely  more  depressing  than  the  genial  darkness 
in  which  our  master  lives.  He  sat  there  on  a  bench, 
a  huge  heap  of  a  man,  dark  and  out  of  shape.  He 
listened  to  all  my  words  without  speaking  or  even 
stirring.  I  poured  out  my  most  passionate  appeals, 
and    asked   my  most   eloquent   questions.     Then, 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  251 

after  a  long  silence,  the  Thing  began  to  shake,  and 
I  thought  it  was  shaken  by  some  secret  malady. 
It  shook  like  a  loathsome  and  living  jelly.  It 
reminded  me  of  everything  I  had  ever  read  about 
the  base  bodies  that  are  the  origin  of  life — the  deep 
sea  lumps  and  protoplasm.  It  seemed  like  the  final 
form  of  matter,  the  most  shapeless  and  the  most 
shameful.  I  could  only  tell  myself,  from  its  shud- 
derings,  that  it  was  something  at  least  that  such  a 
monster  could  be  miserable.  And  then  it  broke 
upon  me  that  the  bestial  mountain  was  shaking  with 
a  lonely  laughter,  and  the  laughter  was  at  me.  Do 
you  ask  me  to  forgive  him  that?  It  is  no  small 
thing  to  be  laughed  at  by  something  at  once  lower 
and  stronger  than  oneself." 

"  Surely  you  fellows  are  exaggerating  wildly," 
cut  in  the  clear  voice  of  Inspector  Ratchffe.  "  Presi- 
dent Sunday  is  a  terrible  fellow  for  one's  intellect, 
but  he  is  not  such  a  Barnum's  freak  physically  as 
you  make  out.  He  received  me  in  an  ordinary 
office,  in  a  grey  check  coat,  in  broad  daylight.  He 
talked  to  me  in  an  ordinary  way.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  is  a  trifle  creepy  about  Sunday.  His  room  is 
neat,  his  clothes  are  neat,  everything  seems  in  order; 
but  he's  absent-minded.  Sometimes  his  great 
bright  eyes  go  quite  blind.     For  hours  he  forgets 


252       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

that  you  are  there.  Now  absent-mindedness  is  just 
a  bit  too  awful  in  a  bad  man.  We  think  of  a  wicked 
man  as  vigilant.  We  can't  think  of  a  wicked  man 
who  is  honestly  and  sincerely  dreamy,  because  we 
daren't  think  of  a  wicked  man  alone  with  himself. 
An  absent-minded  man  means  a  good-natured  man. 
It  means  a  man  who,  if  he  happens  to  see  you,  will 
apologise.  But  how  will  you  bear  an  absent-minded 
man  who,  if  he  happens  to  see  you,  will  kill  you  ? 
That  is  what  tries  the  nerves,  abstraction  combined 
with  cruelty.  Men  have  felt  it  sometimes  when 
they  went  through  wild  forests,  and  felt  that  the 
animals  there  were  at  once  innocent  and  pitiless. 
They  might  ignore  or  slay.  How  would  you  like 
to  pass  ten  mortal  hours  in  a  parlour  with  an  absent- 
minded  tiger?" 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  Sunday,  Gogol  ? " 
asked  Syme. 

"  I  don't  think  of  Sunday  on  principle,"  said 
Gogol  simply,  "  any  more  than  I  stare  at  the  sun  at 
noonday." 

"Well,  that  is  a  point  of  view,"  said  Syme 
thoughtfully.     "  What  do  you  say,  Professor  ?  " 

The  Professor  was  walking  with  bent  head 
and  trailing  stick,  and  he  did  not  answer 
at  all. 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  253 

"  Wake  up,  Professor ! "  said  Syme  genially. 
"  Tell  us  what  you  think  of  Sunday." 

The  Professor  spoke  at  last  very  slowly. 

"  I  think  something,"  he  said,  "  that  I  cannot  say 
clearly.  Or,  rather,  I  think  something  that  I  can- 
not even  think  clearly.  But  it  is  something  hke 
this.  My  early  life,  as  you  know,  was  a  bit  too 
large  and  loose.  Well,  when  I  saw  Sunday's  face  I 
thought  it  was  too  large — everybody  does,  but  I 
also  thought  it  was  too  loose.  The  face  was  so 
big,  that  one  couldn't  focus  it  or  make  it  a  face  at 
all.  The  eye  was  so  far  away  from  the  nose,  that 
it  wasn't  an  eye.  The  mouth  was  so  much  by 
itself,  that  one  had  to  think  of  it  by  itself.  The 
whole  thing  is  too  hard  to  explain." 

He  paused  for  a  httle,  still  trailing  his  stick,  and 
then  went  on — 

"  But  put  it  this  way.  Walking  up  a  road  at 
night,  I  have  seen  a  lamp  and  a  lighted  window 
and  a  cloud  make  together  a  most  complete  and 
unmistakable  face.  If  any  one  in  heaven  has  that 
face  I  shall  know  him  again.  Yet  when  I  walked  a 
little  farther  I  found  that  there  was  no  face,  that 
the  window  was  ten  yards  away,  the  lamp  ten 
hundred  yards,  the  cloud  beyond  the  world.  Well, 
Sunday's  face  escaped  me ;  it  ran  away  to  right  and 


254       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

left,  as  such  chance  pictures  run  away.  And  so  his 
face  has  made  me,  somehow,  doubt  whether  there 
are  any  faces.  I  don't  know  whether  your  face, 
Bull,  is  a  face  or  a  combination  in  perspective. 
Perhaps  one  black  disc  of  your  beastly  glasses  is 
quite  close  and  another  fifty  miles  away.  Oh,  the 
doubts  of  a  materialist  are  not  worth  a  dump,  Sun- 
day has  taught  me  the  last  and  the  worst  doubts, 
the  doubts  of  a  spiritualist.  I  am  a  Buddhist,  I 
suppose ;  and  Buddhism  is  not  a  creed,  it  is  a  doubt. 
My  poor  dear  Bull,  I  do  not  believe  that  you  really 
have  a  face.  I  have  not  faith  enough  to  believe  in 
matter." 

Syme's  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  the  errant  orb, 
which,  reddened  in  the  evening  light,  looked  like 
some  rosier  and  more  innocent  world. 

"  Have  you  noticed  an  odd  thing,"  he  said, 
"  about  all  your  descriptions  ?  Each  man  of  you 
finds  Sunday  quite  different,  yet  each  man  of  you 
can  only  find  one  thing  to  compare  him  to — the 
universe  itself.  Bull  finds  him  like  the  earth  in 
spring,  Gogol  like  the  sun  at  noonday.  The  Secre- 
tary is  reminded  of  the  shapeless  protoplasm,  and 
the  Inspector  of  the  carelessness  of  virgin  forests. 
The  Professor  says  he  is  like  a  changing  landscape. 
This  is  queer,  but  it  is  queerer  still  that  I  also  have 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  255 

had  my  odd  notion  about  the  President,  and  I 
also  find  that  I  think  of  Sunday  as  I  think  of  the 
whole  world." 

"  Get  on  a  little  faster,  Syme,"  said  Bull ;  "  never 
mind  the  balloon." 

"  When  I  first  saw  Sunday,"  said  Syme  slowly, 
"  I  only  saw  his  back ;  and  when  I  saw  his  back,  I 
knew  he  was  the  worst  man  in  the  world.  His 
neck  and  shoulders  were  brutal,  like  those  of  some 
apish  god.  His  head  had  a  stoop  that  was  hardly 
human,  like  the  stoop  of  an  ox.  In  fact,  I  had  at 
once  the  revolting  fancy  that  this  was  not  a  man  at 
all,  but  a  beast  dressed  up  in  men's  clothes." 

"  Get  on,"  said  Dr.  Bull. 

"  And  then  the  queer  thing  happened.  I  had 
seen  his  back  from  the  street,  as  he  sat  in  the 
balcony.  Then  I  entered  the  hotel,  and  coming 
round  the  other  side  of  him,  saw  his  face  in  the 
sunlight.  I  lis  face  frightened  me,  as  it  did  every 
one ;  but  not  because  it  was  brutal,  not  because  it 
was  evil.  On  the  contrary,  it  frightened  me  because 
it  was  so  beautiful,  because  it  was  so  good." 

"  Syme,"  exclaimed  the  Secretary,  "  are  you 
ill  ?  " 

"  It  was  like  the  face  of  some  ancient  archangel, 
judging  justly  after  heroic  wars.     There  was  laugh- 


256        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

ter  in  the  eyes,  and  in  the  mouth  honour  and 
sorrow.  There  was  the  same  white  hair,  the  same 
great,  grey-clad  shoulders  that  I  had  seen  from 
behind.  But  when  I  saw  him  from  behind  I  was 
certain  he  was  an  animal,  and  when  I  saw  him  in 
front  I  knew  he  was  a  god." 

"  Pan,"  said  the  Professor  dreamily,  "  was  a  god 
and  an  animal." 

"  Then,  and  again  and  always,"  went  on  Syme, 
like  a  man  talking  to  himself,  "  that  has  been  for 
me  the  mystery  of  Sunday,  and  it  is  also  the  mys- 
tery of  the  world.  When  I  see  the  horrible  back,  I 
am  sure  the  noble  face  is  but  a  mask.  When  I  see 
the  face  but  for  an  instant,  I  know  the  back  is  only 
a  jest.  Bad  is  so  bad,  that  we  cannot  but  think 
good  an  accident;  good  is  so  good,  that  we  feel 
certain  that  evil  could  be  explained.  But  the  whole 
came  to  a  kind  of  crest  yesterday  when  I  raced 
Sunday  for  the  cab,  and  was  just  behind  him  all 
the  way." 

"  Had  you  time  for  thinking  then  ? "  asked 
Ratcliffe. 

"  Time,"  replied  Syme,  "  for  one  outrageous 
thought.  I  was  suddenly  possessed  with  the  idea 
that  the  blind,  blank  back  of  his  head  really  was  his 
face — an  awful,  eyeless  face  staring  at  me !     And  I 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  257 

fancied  that  the  figure  running  in  front  of  me  was 
really  a  figure  running  backwards,  and  dancing  as 
he  ran." 

"  Horrible  !  "  said  Dr.  Bull,  and  shuddered. 

"  Horrible  is  not  the  word,"  said  Syme.  "  It  was 
exactly  the  worst  instant  of  my  life.  And  yet  ten 
minutes  afterwards,  when  he  put  his  head  out  of 
the  cab  and  made  a  grimace  like  a  gargoyle,  I  knew 
that  he  was  only  like  a  father  playing  hide-and- 
seek  with  his  children." 

"  It  is  a  long  game,"  said  the  Secretary,  and 
frowned  at  his  broken  boots. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  cried  Syme  with  extraordinary 
emphasis.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  the  secret  of  the  whole 
world  ?  It  is  that  we  have  only  known  the  back  of 
the  world.  We  see  everything  from  behind,  and 
it  looks  brutal.  That  is  not  a  tree,  but  the  back 
of  a  tree.  That  is  not  a  cloud,  but  the  back  of  a 
cloud.  Cannot  you  see  that  everything  is  stooping 
and  hiding  a  face  ?  If  we  could  only  get  round  in 
front " 

"  Look  !  "  cried  out  Bull  clamorously,  "the  balloon 
is  coming  down  !  " 

There  was  no  need  to  cry  out  to  Syme,  who  had 
never  taken  his  eyes  off  it.  He  saw  the  great 
luminous  globe  suddenly  stap[gcr  in  the  sky,  right 


258        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

itself,  and  then  sink  slowly  behind  the  trees  like  a 
setting  sun. 

The  man  called  Gogol,  who  had  hardly  spoken 
through  all  their  weary  travels,  suddenly  threw  up 
his  hands  like  a  lost  spirit. 

"  He  is  dead ! "  he  cried.  "  And  now  I  know  he 
was  my  friend — my  friend  in  the  dark  !  " 

"  Dead  !  "  snorted  the  Secretary.  "  You  will  not 
find  him  dead  easily.  If  he  has  been  tipped  out  of 
the  car,  we  shall  find  him  rolling  as  a  colt  rolls  in  a 
field,  kicking  his  legs  for  fun." 

"  Clashing  his  hoofs,"  said  the  Professor.  "  The 
colts  do,  and  so  did  Pan." 

•'  Pan  again  !  "  said  Dr.  Bull  irritably.  "  You 
seem  to  think  Pan  is  everything." 

"  So  he  is,"  said  the  Professor,  "  in  Greek.  He 
means  everything." 

"  Don't  forget,"  said  the  Secretary,  looking  down, 
"  that  he  also  means  Panic." 

Syme  had  stood  without  hearing  any  of  the 
exclamations. 

"  It  fell  over  there,"  he  said  shortly.  "  Let  us 
follow  it !  " 

Then  he  added  with  an  indescribable  gesture  — 

"  Oh,  if  he  has  cheated  us  all  by  getting  killed  ! 
It  would  be  like  one  of  his  larks." 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  259 

He  strode  off  towards  the  distant  trees  with  a 
new  energy,  his  rags  and  ribbons  fluttering  in  the 
wind.  The  others  followed  him  in  a  more  footsore 
and  dubious  manner.  And  almost  at  the  same  mo- 
ment all  six  men  realised  that  they  were  not  alone 
in  the  little  field. 

Across  the  square  of  turf  a  tall  man  was  advanc- 
ing towards  them,  leaning  on  a  strange  long  staff 
like  a  sceptre.  He  was  clad  in  a  fine  but  old- 
fashioned  suit  with  knee-breeches;  its  colour  was 
that  shade  between  blue,  violet  and  grey  which  can 
be  seen  in  certain  shadows  of  the  woodland.  His 
hair  was  whitish  grey,  and  at  the  first  glance,  taken 
along  with  his  knee-breeches,  looked  as  if  it  was 
powdered.  His  advance  was  very  quiet;  but  for 
the  silver  frost  upon  his  head,  he  might  have  been 
one  of  the  shadows  of  the  wood. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  my  master  has  a  carriage 
waiting  for  you  in  the  road  just  by." 

"  Who  is  your  master  ?  "  asked  Syme,  standing 

quite  still. 

"  I  was  told  you  knew  his  name,"  said  the  man 

respectfully. 

There   was   a  silence,   and   then   the   Secretary 

said  — 

"  Where  is  this  carriage  ?  " 


26o        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  It  has  been  waiting  only  a  few  moments,"  said 
the  stranger.  "  My  master  has  only  just  come 
home." 

Syme  looked  left  and  right  upon  the  patch  of  green 
field  in  which  he  found  himself.  The  hedges  were 
ordinary  hedges,  the  trees  seemed  ordinary  trees ; 
yet  he  felt  hke  a  man  entrapped  in  fairy-land. 

He  looked  the  mysterious  ambassador  up  and 
down,  but  he  could  discover  nothing  except  that 
the  man's  coat  was  the  exact  colour  of  the  purple 
shadows,  and  that  the  man's  face  was  the  exact 
colour  of  the  red  and  brown  and  golden  sky. 

"  Show  us  the  place,"  Syme  said  briefly,  and 
without  a  word  the  man  in  the  violet  coat  turned 
his  back  and  walked  towards  a  gap  in  the  hedge, 
which  let  in  suddenly  the  hght  of  a  white  road. 

As  the  six  wanderers  broke  out  upon  this  thor- 
oughfare, they  saw  the  white  road  blocked  by  what 
looked  like  a  long  row  of  carriages,  such  a  row  of 
carriages  as  might  close  the  approach  to  some  house 
in  Park  Lane.  Along  the  side  of  these  carriages 
stood  a  rank  of  splendid  servants,  all  dressed  in  the 
grey-blue  uniform,  and  all  having  a  certain  quality 
of  stateliness  and  freedom  which  would  not  com- 
monly belong  to  the  servants  of  a  gentleman,  but 
rather  to  the  officials  and  ambassadors  of  a  great 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  261 

king.  There  were  no  less  than  six  carriages  wait- 
ing, one  for  each  of  the  tattered  and  miserable 
band.  All  the  attendants  (as  if  in  court-dress)  wore 
swords,  and  as  each  man  crawled  into  his  carriage 
they  drew  them,  and  saluted  with  a  sudden  blaze  of 
steel. 

"  What  can  it  all  mean  ?  "  asked  Bull  of  Syme  as 
they  separated.  '•  Is  this  another  joke  of  Sun- 
day's ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Syme  as  he  sank  wearily 
back  in  the  cushions  of  his  carriage ;  "  but  if  it  is, 
it's  one  of  the  jokes  you  talk  about.  It's  a  good- 
natured  one." 

The  six  adventurers  had  passed  through  many 
adventures,  but  not  one  had  carried  them  so  utterly 
off  their  feet  as  this  last  adventure  of  comfort. 
They  had  all  become  inured  to  things  going 
roughly ;  but  things  suddenly  going  smoothly 
swamped  them.  They  could  not  even  feebly 
imagine  what  the  carriages  were  ;  it  was  enough 
for  them  to  know  that  they  were  carriages,  and 
carriages  with  cushions.  They  could  not  conceive 
who  the  old  man  was  who  had  led  them ;  but  it 
was  quite  enough  that  he  had  certainly  led  them  to 
the  carriages. 

Syme  drove  through  a  drifting  darkness  of  trees 


262        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

in  utter  abandonment.  It  was  typical  of  him  that 
while  he  had  carried  his  bearded  chin  forward 
fiercely  so  long  as  anything  could  be  done,  when 
the  whole  business  was  taken  out  of  his  hands  he 
fell  back  on  the  cushions  in  a  frank  collapse. 

Very  gradually  and  very  vaguely  he  realised  into 
what  rich  roads  the  carriage  was  carrying  him.  He 
saw  that  they  passed  the  stone  gates  of  what  might 
have  been  a  park,  that  they  began  gradually  to 
climb  a  hill  which,  while  wooded  on  both  sides,  was 
somewhat  more  orderly  than  a  forest.  Then  there 
began  to  grow  upon  him,  as  upon  a  man  slowly 
waking  from  a  healthy  sleep,  a  pleasure  in  every- 
thing. He  felt  that  the  hedges  were  what  hedges 
should  be,  living  walls ;  that  a  hedge  is  like  a 
human  army,  disciplined,  but  all  the  more  alive. 
He  saw  high  elms  behind  the  hedges,  and  vaguely 
thought  how  happy  boys  would  be  climbing  there. 
Then  his  carriage  took  a  turn  of  the  path,  and  he 
saw  suddenly  and  quietly,  like  a  long,  low,  sunset 
cloud,  a  long,  low  house,  mellow  in  the  mild  light 
of  sunset.  All  the  six  friends  compared  notes  after- 
wards and  quarrelled ;  but  they  all  agreed  that  in 
some  unaccountable  way  the  place  reminded  them 
of  their  boyhood.  It  was  either  this  elm-top  or  that 
crooked  path,  it  was  either  this  scrap  of  orchard  or 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  263 

that  shape  of  a  window ;  but  each  man  of  them 
declared  that  he  could  remember  this  place  before 
he  could  remember  his  mother. 

When  the  carriages  eventually  rolled  up  to  a  large, 
low,  cavernous  gateway,  another  man  in  the  same 
uniform,  but  wearing  a  silver  star  on  the  grey  breast 
of  his  coat,  came  out  to  meet  them.  This  impress- 
ive person  said  to  the  bewildered  Syme  — 

'•  Refreshments  are  provided  for  you  in  your 
room." 

Syme,  under  the  influence  of  the  same  mesmeric 
sleep  of  amazement,  went  up  the  large  oaken  stairs 
after  the  respectful  attendant.  He  entered  a  splen- 
did suite  of  apartments  that  seemed  to  be  designed 
specially  for  him.  He  walked  up  to  a  long  mirror 
with  the  ordinary  instinct  of  his  class,  to  pull  his 
tie  straight  or  to  smooth  his  hair ;  and  there  he  saw 
the  frightful  figure  that  he  was — blood  running  down 
his  face  from  where  the  bough  had  struck  him,  his 
hair  standing  out  like  yellow  rags  of  rank  grass,  his 
clothes  torn  into  long,  wavering  tatters.  At  once 
the  whole  enigma  sprang  up,  simply  as  the  question 
of  how  he  had  got  there,  and  how  he  was  to  get  out 
again.  Exactly  at  the  same  moment  a  man  in  blue, 
who  had  been  appointed  as  his  valet,  said  very 
solemnly — 


264        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  I  have  put  out  your  clothes,  sir." 

"  Clothes  !  "  said  Syme  sardonically.  "  I  have  no 
clothes  except  these,"  and  he  lifted  two  long  strips 
of  his  frock-coat  in  fascinating  festoons,  and  made 
a  movement  as  if  to  twirl  hke  a  ballet  girl. 

"  My  master  asks  me  to  say,"  said  the  attendant, 
"  that  there  is  a  fancy  dress  ball  to-night,  and  that 
he  desires  you  to  put  on  the  costume  that  I  have 
laid  out.  Meanwhile,  sir,  there  is  a  bottle  of  Bur- 
gundy and  some  cold  pheasant,  which  he  hopes  you 
will  not  refuse,  as  it  is  some  hours  before  supper." 

"  Cold  pheasant  is  a  good  thing,"  said  Syme  re- 
flectively, **  and  Burgundy  is  a  spanking  good  thing. 
But  really  I  do  not  want  either  of  them  so  much  as 
I  want  to  know  what  the  devil  all  this  means,  and 
what  sort  of  costume  you  have  got  laid  out  for 
me.     Where  is  it  ?  " 

The  servant  lifted  off  a  kind  of  ottoman  a  long 
peacock-blue  drapery,  rather  of  the  nature  of  a 
domino,  on  the  front  of  which  was  emblazoned  a 
large  golden  sun,  and  which  was  splashed  here  and 
there  with  flaming  stars  and  crescents. 

"  You're  to  be  dressed  as  Thursday,  sir,"  said  the 
valet  somewhat  affably. 

"  Dressed  as  Thursday ! "  said  Syme  in  meditation, 
"  It  doesn't  sound  a  warm  costume." 


THE  SIX  PHILOSOPHERS  265 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir,"  said  the  other  eagerly,  "  the  Thurs- 
day costume  is  quite  warm,  sir.  It  fastens  up  to 
the  chin." 

"  Well,  I  don't  understand  anything,"  said  Syme, 
sighing.  "  I  have  been  used  so  long  to  uncom- 
fortable adventures  that  comfortable  adventures 
knock  me  out.  Still,  I  may  be  allowed  to  ask  why 
I  should  be  particularly  like  Thursday  in  a  green 
frock  spotted  all  over  with  the  sun  and  moon. 
Those  orbs,  I  think,  shine  on  other  days.  I  once 
saw  the  moon  on  Tuesday,  I  remember." 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  valet,  "  Bible  also 
provided  for  you,"  and  with  a  respectful  and  rigid 
finger  he  pointed  out  a  passage  in  the  first  chapter 
of  Genesis.  Syme  read  it  wondering.  It  was  that 
in  which  the  fourth  day  of  the  week  is  associated 
with  the  creation  of  the  sun  and  moon.  Here, 
however,  they  reckoned  from  a  Christian  Sunday. 

"  This  is  getting  wilder  and  wilder,"  said  Syme, 
as  he  sat  down  in  a  chair.  "  Who  are  these  people 
who  provide  cold  pheasant  and  Burgundy,  and  green 
clothes  and  Bibles  ?    Do  they  provide  everything  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir,  everything,"  said  the  attendant  gravely. 
**  Shall  I  help  you  on  with  your  costume  ?  " 

"  Oh,  hitch  the  bally  thing  on  !  "  said  Syme  im- 
patiently. 


266        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

But  though  he  affected  to  despise  the  mummery, 
he  felt  a  curious  freedom  and  naturalness  in  his 
movements  as  the  blue  and  gold  garment  fell  about 
him ;  and  when  he  found  that  he  had  to  wear  a 
sword,  it  stirred  a  boyish  dream.  As  he  passed  out 
of  the  room  he  flung  the  folds  across  his  shoulder 
with  a  gesture,  his  sword  stood  out  at  an  angle,  and 
he  had  all  the  swagger  of  a  troubadour.  For  these 
disguises  did  not  disguise,  but  reveal. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   ACCUSER 

As  Syme  strode  along  the  corridor  he  saw  the 
Secretary  standing  at  the  tOj^.:  of  a  great  flight  of 
stairs.  The  man  had  never  looked  so  noble.  He 
was  draped  in  a  long  robe  of  starless  black,  down 
the  centre  of  which  fell  a  band  or  broad  stripe  of 
pure  white,  like  a  single  shaft  of  light.  The  whole 
looked  like  some  very  severe  ecclesiastical  vestment. 
There  was  no  need  for  Syme  to  search  his  memory 
or  the  Bible  in  order  to  remember  that  the  first  day 
of  creation  marked  the  mere  creation  of  light  out  of 
darkness.  The  vestment  itself  would  alone  have  sug- 
gested the  symbol ;  and  Syme  felt  also  how  perfectly 
this  pattern  of  pure  white  and  black  expressed  the 
soul  of  the  pale  and  austere  Secretary,  with  his  in- 
human veracity  and  his  cold  frenzy,  which  made 
him  so  easily  make  war  on  the  anarchists,  and  yet 
so  easily  pass  for  one  of  them.  Syme  was  scarcely 
surprised  to  notice  that,  amid  all  the  ease  and  hos- 
pitality of  their  new  surroundings,  this  man's  eyes 

were  still  stern.     No  smell  of  ale  or  orchards  could 

267 


268        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

make  the  Secretary  cease  to  ask  a  reasonable  ques- 
tion. 

If  Syme  had  been  able  to  see  himself,  he  would 
have  realised  that  he,  too,  seemed  to  be  for  the  first 
time  himself  and  no  one  else.  For  if  the  Secretary 
stood  for  that  philosopher  who  loves  the  original 
and  formless  light,  Syme  was  a  type  of  the  poet  who 
seeks  always  to  make  the  light  in  special  shapes,  to 
split  it  up  into  sun  and  star.  The  philosopher  may 
sometimes  love  the  infinite ;  the  poet  always  loves 
the  finite.  For  him  the  great  moment  is  not  the 
creation  of  light,  but  the  creation  of  the  sun  and 
moon. 

As  they  descended  the  broad  stairs  together  they 
overtook  Ratcliffe,  who  was  clad  in  spring  green  like 
a  huntsman,  and  the  pattern  upon  whose  garment 
was  a  green  tangle  of  trees.  For  he  stood  for  that 
third  day  on  which  the  earth  and  green  things  were 
made,  and  his  square,  sensible  face,  with  its  not 
unfriendly  cynicism,  seemed  appropriate  enough 
to  it. 

They  were  led  out  of  another  broad  and  low  gate- 
way into  a  very  large  old  English  garden,  full  of 
torches  and  bonfires,  by  the  broken  light  of  which 
a  vast  carnival  of  people  were  dancing  in  motley 
dress.     Syme  seemed  to  see  every  shape  in  Nature 


THE  ACCUSER  269 

imitated  in  some  crazy  costume.  There  was  a  man 
dressed  as  a  windmill  with  enormous  sails,  a  man 
dressed  as  an  elephant,  a  man  dressed  as  a  balloon ; 
the  two  last,  together,  seemed  to  keep  the  thread 
of  their  farcical  adventures.  Syme  even  saw,  with 
a  queer  thrill,  one  dancer  dressed  like  an  enormous 
hornbill,  with  a  beak  twice  as  big  as  himself — the 
queer  bird  which  had  fixed  itself  on  his  fancy  like  a 
living  question  while  he  was  rushing  down  the  long 
road  at  the  Zoological  Gardens.  There  were  a 
thousand  other  such  objects,  however.  There  was 
a  dancing  lamp-post,  a  dancing  apple  tree,  a  dancing 
ship.  One  would  have  thought  that  the  untamable 
tune  of  some  mad  musician  had  set  all  the  common 
objects  of  field  and  street  dancing  an  eternal  jig. 
And  long  afterwards,  when  Syme  was  middle-aged 
and  at  rest,  he  could  never  see  one  of  those  particu- 
lar objects — a  lamp-post,  or  an  apple  tree,  or  a  wind- 
mill— without  thinking  that  it  was  a  strayed  reveller 
from  that  revel  of  masquerade. 

On  one  side  of  this  lawn,  alive  with  dancers,  was 
a  sort  of  green  bank,  like  the  terrace  in  such  old- 
fashioned  gardens. 

Along  this,  in  a  kind  of  crescent,  stood  seven 
great  chairs,  the  thrones  of  the  seven  days.  Gogol 
and    Dr.   Bull   were   already   in   their  seats;    the 


270        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

Professor  was  just  mounting  to  his.  Gogol,  or 
Tuesday,  had  his  simplicity  well  symbolised  by  a 
dress  designed  upon  the  division  of  the  waters,  a 
dress  that  separated  upon  his  forehead  and  fell  to 
his  feet,  grey  and  silver,  like  a  sheet  of  rain.  The 
Professor,  whose  day  was  that  on  which  the  birds 
and  fishes — the  ruder  forms  of  life — were  created, 
had  a  dress  of  dim  purple,  over  which  sprawled 
goggle-eyed  fishes  and  outrageous  tropical  birds, 
the  union  in  him  of  unfathomable  fancy  and  of 
doubt.  Dr.  Bull,  the  last  day  of  Creation,  wore  a 
coat  covered  with  heraldic  animals  in  red  and  gold, 
and  on  his  crest  a  man  rampant.  He  lay  back  in 
his  chair  with  a  broad  smile,  the  picture  of  an  opti- 
mist in  his  element. 

One  by  one  the  wanderers  ascended  the  bank 
and  sat  in  their  strange  seats.  As  each  of  them  sat 
down  a  roar  of  enthusiasm  rose  from  the  carnival, 
such  as  that  with  which  crowds  receive  kings.  Cups 
were  clashed  and  torches  shaken,  and  feathered  hats 
flung  in  the  air.  The  men  for  whom  these  thrones 
were  reserved  were  men  crowned  with  some  ex- 
traordinary laurels.  But  the  central  chair  was 
empty. 

Syme  was  on  the  left  hand  of  it  and  the  Secre- 
tary on  the  right.     The  Secretary  looked  across  the 


THE  ACCUSER  271 

empty  throne  at  Syme,  and  said,  compressing  his 
lips  — 

"  We  do  not  know  yet  that  he  is  not  dead  in  a 
field." 

Almost  as  Syme  heard  the  words,  he  saw  on  the 
sea  of  human  faces  in  front  of  him  a  frightful  and 
beautiful  alteration,  as  if  heaven  had  opened  behind 
his  head.  But  Sunday  had  only  passed  silently 
along  the  front  like  a  shadow,  and  had  sat  in  the 
central  seat.  He  was  draped  plainly,  in  a  pure  and 
terrible  white,  and  his  hair  was  like  a  silver  flame  on 
his  forehead. 

For  a  long  time — it  seemed  for  hours — that  huge 
masquerade  of  mankind  swayed  and  stamped  in 
front  of  them  to  marching  and  exultant  music. 
Every  couple  dancing  seemed  a  separate  romance ; 
it  might  be  a  fairy  dancing  with  a  pillar-box,  or  a 
peasant  girl  dancing  with  the  moon  ;  but  in  each 
case  it  was,  somehow,  as  absurd  as  Alice  in  Won- 
derland, yet  as  grave  and  kind  as  a  love  story.  At 
last,  however,  the  thick  crowd  began  to  thin  itself. 
Couples  strolled  away  into  the  garden-walks,  or  be- 
gan to  drift  towards  that  end  of  the  building  where 
stood  smoking,  in  huge  pots  like  fish-kettles,  some 
hot  and  scented  mixtures  of  old  ale  or  wine.  Above 
all  these,  upon  a  sort  of  black  framework  on  the  roof 


272        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

of  the  house,  roared  in  its  iron  basket  a  gigantic 
bonfire,  which  Ht  up  the  land  for  miles.  It  flung 
the  homely  effect  of  firelight  over  the  face  of  vast 
forests  of  grey  or  brown,  and  it  seemed  to  fill  with 
warmth  even  the  emptiness  of  upper  night.  Yet 
this  also,  after  a  time,  was  allowed  to  grow  fainter ; 
the  dim  groups  gathered  more  and  more  round  the 
great  cauldrons,  or  passed,  laughing  and  clattering, 
into  the  inner  passages  of  that  ancient  house.  Soon 
there  were  only  some  ten  loiterers  in  the  garden ; 
soon  only  four.  Finally  the  last  stray  merry-maker 
ran  into  the  house  whooping  to  his  companions. 
The  fire  faded,  and  the  slow,  strong  stars  came  out. 
And  the  seven  strange  men  were  left  alone,  Hke 
seven  stone  statues  on  their  chairs  of  stone.  Not 
one  of  them  had  spoken  a  word. 

They  seemed  in  no  haste  to  do  so,  but  heard  in 
silence  the  hum  of  insects  and  the  distant  song  of 
one  bird.  Then  Sunday  spoke,  but  so  dreamily 
that  he  might  have  been  continuing  a  conversation 
rather  than  beginning  one. 

"  We  will  eat  and  drink  later,"  he  said.  "  Let  us 
remain  together  a  little,  we  who  have  loved  each 
other  so  sadly,  and  have  fought  so  long.  I  seem  to 
remember  only  centuries  of  heroic  war,  in  which 
you  were   always   heroes — epic  on  epic,  iliad  on 


THE  ACCUSER  273 

iliad,  and  you  always  brothers  in  arms.  Whether 
it  was  but  recently  (for  time  is  nothing),  or  at  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  I  sent  you  out  to  war.  I 
sat  in  the  darkness,  where  there  is  not  any  created 
thing,  and  to  you  I  was  only  a  voice  commanding 
valour  and  an  unnatural  virtue.  You  heard  the 
voice  in  the  dark,  and  you  never  heard  it  again. 
The  sun  in  heaven  denied  it,  the  earth  and  sky 
denied  it,  all  human  wisdom  denied  it.  And 
when  I  met  you  in  the  dayhght  I  denied  it  my- 
self." 

Syme  stirred  sharply  in  his  seat,  but  otherwise 
there  was  silence,  and  the  incomprehensible  went 
on. 

"  But  you  were  men.  You  did  not  forget  your 
secret  honour,  though  the  whole  cosmos  turned  an 
engine  of  torture  to  tear  it  out  of  you.  I  knew 
how  near  you  were  to  hell.  I  know  how  you, 
Thursday,  crossed  swords  with  King  Satan,  and 
how  you,  Wednesday,  named  me  in  the  hour  with- 
out hope." 

There  was  complete  silence  in  the  starlit  garden, 
and  then  the  black-browed  Secretary,  implacable, 
turned  in  his  chair  towards  Sunday,  and  said  in  a 
harsh  voice  — 

"  Who  and  what  are  you  ?  " 


274       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

"  I  am  the  Sabbath,"  said  the  other  without 
moving.     "  I  am  the  peace  of  God." 

The  Secretary  started  up,  and  stood  crushing  his 
costly  robe  in  his  hand. 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,"  he  cried,  "  and  it  is 
exactly  that  that  I  cannot  forgive  you.  I  know 
you  are  contentment,  optimism,  what  do  they  call 
the  thing,  an  ultimate  reconciliation.  Well,  I  am 
not  reconciled.  If  you  were  the  man  in  the  dark 
room,  why  were  you  also  Sunday,  an  offence  to  the 
sunlight  ?  If  you  were  from  the  first  our  father 
and  our  friend,  why  were  you  also  our  greatest 
enemy  ?  We  wept,  we  fled  in  terror ;  the  iron 
entered  into  our  souls — and  you  are  the  peace  of  God ! 
Oh,  I  can  forgive  God  His  anger,  though  it  destroyed 
nations  ;  but  I  cannot  forgive  Him  His  peace." 

Sunday  answered  not  a  word,  but  very  slowly  he 
turned  his  face  of  stone  upon  Syme  as  if  asking  a 
question. 

"  No,"  said  Syme,  "  I  do  not  feel  fierce  like  that. 
I  am  grateful  to  you,  not  only  for  wine  and  hospi- 
tahty  here,  but  for  many  a  fine  scamper  and  free 
fight.  But  I  should  like  to  know.  My  soul  and 
heart  are  as  happy  and  quiet  here  as  this  old  gar- 
den, but  my  reason  is  still  crying  out.  I  should 
like  to  know." 


THE  ACCUSER  275 

Sunday  looked  at  Ratcliffe,  whose  clear  voice 
said  — 

"  It  seems  so  silly  that  you  should  have  been  on 
both  sides  and  fought  yourself." 

Bull  said  — 

"  I  understand  nothing,  but  I  am  happy.  In 
fact,  I  am  going  to  sleep." 

"  I  am  not  happy,"  said  the  Professor  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  "  because  I  do  not  understand. 
You  let  me  stray  a  little  too  near  to  hell." 

And  then  Gogol  said,  with  the  absolute  simplicity 
of  a  child  — 

"  I  wish  I  knew  why  I  was  hurt  so  much." 

Still  Sunday  said  nothing,  but  only  sat  with  his 
mighty  chin  upon  his  hand,  and  gazed  at  the  dis- 
tance.    Then  at  last  he  said  — 

"I  have  heard  your  complaints  in  order.  And 
here,  I  think,  comes  another  to  complain,  and  we 
will  hear  him  also." 

The  falling  fire  in  the  great  cresset  threw  a  last 
long  gleam,  like  a  bar  of  burning  gold,  across  the 
dim  grass.  Against  this  fiery  band  was  outlined  in 
utter  black  the  advancing  legs  of  a  black-clad 
figure.  He  seemed  to  have  a  fine  close  suit  with 
knee-breeches  such  as  that  which  was  worn  by  the 
servants  of  the  house,  only  that  it  was  not  blue,  but 


276       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

of  this  absolute  sable.  He  had,  like  the  servants, 
a  kind  of  sword  by  his  side.  It  was  only  when  he 
had  come  quite  close  to  the  crescent  of  the  seven 
and  flung  up  his  face  to  look  at  them,  that  Syme 
saw,  with  thunderstruck  clearness,  that  the  face  was 
the  broad,  almost  ape-like  face  of  his  old  friend 
Gregory,  with  its  rank  red  hair  and  its  insulting 
smile. 

"  Gregory ! "  gasped  Syme,  half-rising  from  his 
seat.     "  Why,  this  is  the  real  anarchist !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Gregory,  with  a  great  and  dangerous 
restraint,  •'  I  am  the  real  anarchist." 

•"  And  there  came  a  day,' "  murmured  Bull,  who 
seemed  really  to  have  fallen  asleep,  "  *  when  the 
sons  of  God  came  before  the  Lord,  and  Satan  also 
came  with  them.'  " 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Gregory,  and  gazed  all 
round.  "  I  am  a  destroyer.  I  would  destroy  the 
world  if  I  could." 

A  sense  of  a  pathos  far  under  the  earth  stirred 
up  in  Syme,  and  he  spoke  brokenly  and  without 
sequence. 

"  Oh,  most  unhappy  man,"  he  cried,  « try 
to  be  happy !  You  have  red  hair  like  your 
sister." 

"  My  red  hair,  like  red  flames,  shall  burn  up  the 


THE  ACCUSER  277 

world,"  said  Gregory.  "  I  thought  I  hated  every- 
thing more  than  common  men  can  hate  anything ; 
but  I  find  that  I  do  not  hate  everything  so  much  as 
I  hate  you  ! " 
"  I  never  hated  you,"  said  Syme  very  sadly. 
Then  out  of  this  unintelligible  creature  the  last 
thunders  broke. 

««  You  !  "   he  cried.     "  You  never  hated  because 
you  never  lived.     I  know  what  you  are  all  of  you, 
from    first  to  last— you  are  the  people  in  power! 
You  are  the  police— the  great  fat,  smiling  men  in 
blue  and  buttons  !     You  are  the  Law,  and  you  have 
never  been  broken.     But  is  there  a  free  soul  alive 
that  does  not  long  to  break  you,  only  because  you 
have  never  been  broken  ?     We  in   revolt  talk  all 
kind  of  nonsense  doubtless  about  this  crime  or  that 
crime  of  the  Government.     It  is  all   folly!     The 
only  crime  of  the  Government  is  that  it  governs. 
The  unpardonable  sin  of  the  supreme  power  is  that 
it  is  supreme.     I  do  not  curse  you  for  being  cruel. 
I  do  not  curse  you  (though  I  might)  for  being  kind. 
I  curse  you  for  being  safe  !     You  sit  in  your  chairs 
of  stone,  and  have   never   come   down  from  them. 
You  are  the  seven  angels  of  heaven,  and  you  have 
had  no  troubles.     Oh,  I  could  forgive  you  every- 
thing, you  that  rule  all  mankind,  if  I  could  feel  for 


278        THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

once  that  you  had  suffered  for  one  hour  a  real 
agony  such  as  I " 

Syme  sprang  to  his  feet,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  I  see  everything,"  he  cried,  "  everything  that 
there  is.  Why  does  each  thing  on  the  earth  war 
against  each  other  thing?  Why  does  each  small 
thing  in  the  world  have  to  fight  against  the  world 
itself?  Why  does  a  fly  have  to  fight  the  whole 
universe  ?  Why  does  a  dandelion  have  to  fight  the 
whole  universe  ?  For  the  same  reason  that  I  had 
to  be  alone  in  the  dreadful  Council  of  the  Days. 
So  that  each  thing  that  obeys  law  may  have  the 
glory  and  isolation  of  the  anarchist.  So  that  each 
man  fighting  for  order  may  be  as  brave  and  good  a 
man  as  the  dynamiter.  So  that  the  real  lie  of 
Satan  may  be  flung  back  in  the  face  of  this  blasphe- 
mer, so  that  by  tears  and  torture  we  may  earn  the 
right  to  say  to  this  man,  '  You  lie  ! '  No  agonies 
can  be  too  great  to  buy  the  right  to  say  to  this  ac- 
cuser, '  We  also  have  suffered.' 

"  It  is  not  true  that  we  have  never  been  broken. 
We  have  been  broken  upon  the  wheel.  It  is  not 
true  that  we  have  never  descended  from  these 
thrones.  We  have  descended  into  hell.  We  were 
complaining  of  unforgettable  miseries  even  at  the 


THE  ACCUSER  279 

very  moment  when  this  man  entered  insolently  to 
accuse  us  of  happiness.  I  repel  the  slander;  we 
have  not  been  happy,  I  can  answer  for  every  one 
of  the  great  guards  of  Law  whom  he  has  accused. 
At  least " 

He  had  turned  his  eyes  so  as  to  see  suddenly  the 
great  face  of  Sunday,  which  wore  a  strange  smile. 

"  Have  you,"  he  cried  in  a  dreadful  voice,  "  have 
you  ever  suffered  ?  " 

As  he  gazed,  the  great  face  grew  to  an  awful 
size,  grew  larger  than  the  colossal  mask  of  Mem- 
non,  which  had  made  him  scream  as  a  child.  It 
grew  larger  and  larger,  filling  the  whole  sky  ;  then 
everything  went  black.  Only  in  the  blackness  be- 
fore it  entirely  destroyed  his  brain  he  seemed  to  hear 
a  distant  voice  saying  a  commonplace  text  that  he 
had  heard  somewhere,  "  Can  ye  drink  of  the  cup 
that  I  drmk  of  ?  " 

****** 

When  men  in  books  awake  from  a  vision,  they 
commonly  find  themselves  in  some  place  in  which 
they  might  have  fallen  asleep  ;  they  yawn  in  a  chair, 
or  lift  themselves  with  bruised  limbs  from  a  field, 
Syme's  experience  was  something  much  more 
psychologically  strange  if  there  was  indeed  anything 
unreal,  in   the  earthly  sense,  about  the  things  he 


28o       THE  MAN  WHO  WAS  THURSDAY 

had  gone  through.  For  while  he  could  always  re- 
member afterwards  that  he  had  swooned  before  the 
face  of  Sunday,  he  could  not  remember  having  ever 
come  to  at  all.  He  could  only  remember  that 
gradually  and  naturally  he  knew  that  he  was  and 
had  been  walking  along  a  country  lane  with  an 
easy  and  conversational  companion.  That  com- 
panion had  been  a  part  of  his  recent  drama  ;  it  was 
the  red-haired  poet  Gregory.  They  were  walking 
like  old  friends,  and  were  in  the  middle  of  a  con- 
versation about  some  triviality.  But  Syme  could 
only  feel  an  unnatural  buoyancy  in  his  body  and  a 
crystal  simplicity  in  his  mind  that  seemed  to  be 
superior  to  everything  that  he  said  or  did.  He  felt 
he  was  in  possession  of  some  impossible  good  news, 
which  made  every  other  thing  a  triviality,  but  an 
adorable  triviality. 

Dawn  was  breaking  over  everything  in  colours  at 
once  clear  and  timid ;  as  if  Nature  made  a  first  at- 
tempt at  yellow  and  a  first  attempt  at  rose.  A 
breeze  blew  so  clean  and  sweet,  that  one  could  not 
think  that  it  blew  from  the  sky;  it  blew  rather 
through  some  hole  in  the  sky.  Syme  felt  a  simple 
surprise  when  he  saw  rising  all  round  him  on  both 
sides  of  the  road  the  red,  irregular  buildings  of 
Saffron  Park.     He  had  no  idea  that  he  had  walked 


THE  ACCUSER  281 

so  near  London.  He  walked  by  instinct  along  one 
white  road,  on  which  early  birds  hopped  and  sang, 
and  found  himself  outside  a  fenced  garden.  There 
he  saw  the  sister  of  Gregory,  the  girl  with  the  gold- 
red  hair,  cutting  lilac  before  breakfast,  with  the 
great  unconscious  gravity  of  a  girl. 


THE  END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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